


How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us: extras

by stickman



Series: How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Explanations, How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us, M/M, Modern AU, One Shot Collection, Outtakes, annotations, references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickman/pseuds/stickman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 1: a list of the various musical, literary, architectural, and filmic references and allusions included in "How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us." Chapter 2: chronological order of the events in the fic, for clarity's sake. </p><p>Later chapters will be outtakes from the main story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/742760) by [stickman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickman/pseuds/stickman). 



**Chapter 1**

            [Bilbo has conquered Rancière and made banana muffins with cream cheese frosting . . .]: Jacques Rancière (b. 1940), Bilbo's reading _The Emancipated Spectator_ , a book of French philosophy on theatre

            [The B-52’s are relentlessly cheerful out of the Volvo’s tinny speakers . . .]: The B-52’s, an American New Wave Band from 1976; Thorin is listening to “Lava” from their 1979 debut album; incidentally, Thorin's Volvo is a 1980s station wagon, something like the one pictured on the Wikipedia page for "Volvo 200 Series"

 

**Chapter 2**

            [The kettle whistles and he makes his tea, drinks it while scanning a chapter of Forster . . .]: E.M. Forster (1879-1970), English Modernist/Realist novelist; Bilbo’s reading _Howards End_ (1910); the epigraph to that novel reads, “Only connect . . .”

            [. . . a half-hearted dinner with Ford Madox Ford and theories of national representation]: Ford Madox Ford (1873-1939), English Modernist novelist; Bilbo’s reading the tetralogy _Parade’s End_ (1924-28) and writing a paper on the representations of the English countryside  & English nationalism and patriotism in the novel

            [I thought I’d get some elevations done tonight . . .]: Thorin’s drawing elevation views of his project, depicting 3-D detail in 2-D to convey the exterior appearance of a building, or the views of its walls if you were to look at them straight-on

            [I only have a thesis for one of them, and it’s a stretch, really, because it’s more about Borges than Brunanburh and I’m not sure what my professor will think, and I was considering adding Tennyson but . . .]: _The Battle of Brunanburh_ is an Old English poem of disputed originary dates and an unknown author, preserved in the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_ , recording an English victory over the Norse & Scots in 937; Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentine writer, philosophical literature & magical realism, and in 1974 he wrote a translation/adaptation of the battle poem titled “Brunanburh 937 AD,” the process of which he discusses in a series of lectures collected in _This Craft of Verse_ (2000); Alfred, Lord Tennyson was a Victorian poet and he, too, wrote a translation, titled “Brunanburh,” which is now very well-known and respected for its linguistic  & stylistic faithfulness to the original, though his son did a lot of the leg-work for that project

            [ _I was bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt . . ._ ]: Bruce Springsteen (b.1949, American singer-songwriter, founder of the E Street Band, heartland rock and Americana sentiments), “Streets of Philadelphia” (1994) was an Academy Award-winning song, originally written for the 1993 film _Philadelphia_

            [The next song is more of the same . . .]: I think the song I had in mind here was Springsteen’s “Secret Garden”; replace the “She” in the lyrics with a “He” and you might guess why; “ _She’ll let you in her house / if you come knockin’ late at night. / She’ll let you in her mouth/ if the words you say are right, / if you pay the price. / She’ll let you deep inside, / but there’s a secret garden she hides_.”

 

**Chapter 3**

            [N/A]

 

**Chapter 4**

            [ _Jacob’s Room_ sits neglected on his lap . . .]: Bilbo’s reading Virginia Woolf (1882-1941); the book is _Jacob’s Room_ (1922), an English Modernist experimental novel

            [Thorin is handing him a triangle and a scale-rule . . .]: tools used in drafting/architectural drawing

            [It’s just a drumbeat, low and then a scattering of high, light hits, and a slow three-note bass pattern.]: Thorin’s playing “Glass, Concrete & Stone” from 2004’s _Grown Backwards_ album by  David Byrne, a Scottish expat living in the United States, founding member of the art rock/pop/New Wave band Talking Heads (1975-1991)

            [He reads for a bit but _Women in Love_ is tedious . . .]: Bilbo’s reading D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930); the novel is _Women in Love_ (1920), an English Modernist text, the sequel to _The Rainbow,_ about the lives  &  relationships of 2 sisters—it’s about 540 pages long

            [He writes a lousy paper on Defoe’s mapping of early eighteenth-century London’s narrow alleyways _qua_ escape routes for thieves in _Moll Flanders_ _. . ._ ] _:_ Bilbo’s reading and writing on Daniel Defoe (c.1660-1731); the novel is _The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders_ (1722), an 18th century English tale of a lower-class female criminal who attempts to raise herself up in the world through a series of ill-fated relationships with men

 

_**Chapter 5**_

[Thorin has taught him about groundplans and elevations, about foam-core models and the many uses of balsa wood. They’ve tossed around theories and Bilbo’s learned how to spot an Eames chair, a house in Le Corbusier’s style, while Thorin sketches Norman arches and grumbles about limestone.]: more architectural drafting terms; foam-core and balsa wood are used for building scale models; a quick Google image search will show you the iconic Eames chair, dating from 1956 (mid-century Modern); Le Corbusier (1887-1965) was a French by- way-of-Switzerland architect and designer, one of the pioneers of modern architecture, and many of his houses exhibit characteristic box-shapes, right angles, long panels of windows, flat rooftops, etc. (again, Google image search can help you out here); Norman architecture makes use of the Romanesque rounded arch over windows or doorways and massive proportions, typical of 11th and 12th century architecture in England for castles/churches/abbeys/etc.

            [Thorin has Billy Bragg on the stereo because Bilbo had vetoed The Rolling Stones in the early morning hour.]: Thorin is playing the _Mermaid Avenue_ album that Bragg (b. 1957, English singer-songwriter and left-wing activist), Wilco (American alternative rock band, formed 1994), and others put together in 1998 of previously unheard lyrics from Woody Guthrie (1912-1967, American singer-songwriter and folk musician, major musical influence, associated with communism and the Dust Bowl) set to music, under the organisation of Nora Guthrie

            [“I’ve always liked ‘Pastures of Plenty,’ ” he says.]: One of Bilbo’s chosen top-ten songs is Guthrie’s “Pastures of Plenty,” particularly, the cover sang by Judy Collins (b. 1939, American singer-songwriter and social activist) with Ani DiFranco (b. 1970, American singer-songwriter and feminist icon); when Thorin says, “I know what it’s like to want a—” he’s referring to the lyrics about longing for a homeland (“ _All along your green valley, I will work till I die. / My land I’ll defend with my life if it be, / ‘cause my pastures of plenty must always be free.”_ )

            [“ ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down,’ ” Thorin answers, quick, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.]: Thorin’s favourite Johnny Cash (1932-2003, American singer-songwriter, highly influential, country and rock & roll as well as blues, folk, gospel, etc.) song, whose lyrics Bilbo calls him out on (“ _Well, I woke up Sunday morning / with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. / And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, / so I had one more for dessert.”_ )

            [“I think I would say, ‘I Hung My Head,’ if I had to choose.”]: Bilbo’s favourite Johnny Cash song is very different, as the narrator sings about his regrets over shooting a man (“ _I begged their forgiveness, / I wish I was dead. / I hung my head, I hung my head_.”)

            [Billy Bragg plays on, unperturbed.]: The _Mermaid Avenue_ album has moved on to the song “Eisler on the Go”

 

**Chapter 6**

            [Bilbo has read enough Dickens to know all about orphans.]: A lot of the works of Charles Dickens (English Victorian novelist, 1812-1870) deals with orphans, but here Bilbo’s thinking specifically of Pip from _Great Expectations_ (1861) and Oliver from _Oliver Twist_ (1838)

            [. . . settles down on the couch with a book on William Morris and British Socialism . . .]: Bilbo’s reading some criticism & theory surrounding William Morris (1834-1896), an English designer, artist, writer, and libertarian Marxist, about whom far too much could be said here

            [Choosing it more because he recognises the name and less because it suits his mood, Bilbo slips Dylan’s _Blood on the Tracks_ from its sleeve . . .]: American singer-songwriter Bob Dylan (b.1941), whose _Blood on the Tracks_ album (1975) is hailed as one of his best albums, dealing with heartache, anger, and loneliness

            [“The Magnificent Seven.”]: possibly my favourite American western, 1960, directed by John Sturges, a remake of Akira Kurosawa’s _Seven Samurai_ (1954), with a fantastic musical score and a stellar cast: Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Robert Vaughn, Brad Dexter, and Horst Buchholz

 

**Chapter 7**

            [It’s quiet in the studio, Van Morrison grainy in the background with the volume turned low . . .]: Van Morrison (Irish singer-songwriter, b. 1945), whose music drawis on soul and R&B and folk; I’m not sure which album I was imaging the guys listening to

            [He has a slim book in his lap, Aragon’s _Une Vague de Rêves_.]: Bilbo’s translating Louis Aragon (1897-1982), a French poet, novelist, and communist; the text is a 1924 Surrealist essay in the original French, and the quotes that crop up in this chapter later are from that text

            [So now he’s not sleeping, but he’s reading Lacan for the first time . . .]: Jacques Lacan (1901-1981), French psychoanalyst and psychiatrist, working in the Freudian tradition, highly influential and highly confusing

            [. . . anyway, we still have to finish your education in Indiana Jones.”]: Thorin is making Bilbo watch George Lucas’s _Indiana Jones_ franchise (but not _The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_ , because we don’t talk about that one), starring Harrison Ford as Indy (and Sean Connery as his father), an adventuring archaeologist

 

**Chapter 8**

            [. . . Schubert scratchy on the record player. Apparently _Die Winterreise_ is Thorin’s idea of Christmas music . . .]: Thorin’s playing the 1828 song cycle Austrian composer Franz Schubert (1797-1828), for voice and piano, most likely a recording sung by Dietrich Fischer Dieskau (German lyric baritone, 1925-2012)

            [It’s all very West Side Story . . .]: American musical with music by Leonard Bernstein and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, first produced on Broadway in 1957, about the Upper West Side of New York City in the mid-1950s and rival teenage street gangs

 

**Chapter 9**

            [. . . they sit on the couch and—true to Thorin’s word—finish off Bilbo’s education Indiana Jones with _The Last Crusade_.]: from 1989, the last of the _Indiana Jones_ films (that we talk about), in which Indy  & his father fight off Nazis in a race to get to the Holy Grail, and Sean Connery scares some seagulls with an umbrella

            [Bruce Springsteen is loud, almost painfully so, on the Volvo’s lousy speakers, singing “Jungleland” as if his heart depends on it.]: More Springsteen, this time 1975’s epic “Jungleland” (about 10 minutes long), about love and gang violence and the ultimate futility of living fast and dying young, featuring the late great Clarence Clemons on sax; considered one of the most important 20th century songs and one of Springsteen’s best

 

**Chapter 10**

            [ . . . this was a text, out of the blue: Cue up R.E.M., New Adventures in Hi-Fi.]: Thorin’s telling Bilbo to listen to R.E.M., an American alternative rock band formed in 1980 with Michael Stipe’s distinctive unclear vocals and Peter Buck playing guitar in an arpeggiated style, often dealing with political and environmental concerns, _New Adventures in Hi-Fi_ is from 1996; the title of this fic is taken from the first track (see next note)

            [The album’s first song is something called “How the West Was Won and Where It Got Us.”]: see previous note

 

**Chapter 11**

            [Whatever song is loud on the stereo has some kind of high, metallic percussion and it’s all he can hear.]: Thorin’s listening to English progressive rock musician Peter Gabriel, “In Your Eyes” from the 1986 album _So_ ; I’m particularly fond of the a cappella cover by The Brown Derbies

            [“Reading Badiou. Eating a bagel.”]: Bilbo’s reading _The Century_ (2005) by Alain Badiou (French far-left communist philosopher, b. 1937) on 20th century politics, philosophy, and literature

            [There’s a song that’s been on his mind these days, and it’s almost certainly the wrong song to play now . . .]: Bilbo plays “O Children,” by Australian alternative rock band Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, formed 1983; this track is the last from the 2004 double album _Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus_

 

**Chapter 12**

            [. . . some re-run of _Lonesome Dove_ on the television . . .]: an Emmy Award-winning Western television miniseries that aired in 1989, based off of Larry McMurtry’s novel, following the former Texas Rangers Gus and Call in a small Texas town

            [“ _Like the morning sun your eyes will follow me._ / _As you watch me wander, curse the powers that be._ / _‘Cause all I want is here and now,_ / _but it’s already been and gone._ / _Our intentions always last that bit too long.”_ _]:_ the song is “Full Moon” (2009) by The Black Ghosts, a UK-based electronic music duo

[. _. ._ a sheaf of papers—notes for an essay he is meant to be writing, photocopies of passages of Benjamin on story-telling and memory.]: Bilbo’s working on a paper dealing with the great literary critic & philosopher Walter Benjamin (1892-1940), a German-Jewish intellectual and Western Marxist associated with the Frankfurt School

 

**Chapter 13**

            [Contamination: that’s what Azog is. Like a stain, or a disease. A spot—out, damned spot! out, I say!]: Bilbo, like all good lit grads, subconsciously quotes Shakespeare at least 12% of the time (it's  _Macbeth_ here, in case you're wondering)

            [“Do not pass Go.”]: Thorin has clearly played Monopoly (board game originally published by Parker Brothers, now under the toy company Hasbro. Players buy & trade in real estate and try to control the board and drive everyone else into bankruptcy, passing the “Go” square nets you $200 each round—there is a certain card that can be drawn which reads: Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. You don’t want that card.

            [Thorin has the first-aid kit of an Eagle Scout . . .]: The highest rank attainable in the Boy Scouts of America, created in 1911

 

**Chapter 14**

            [N/A]

 

**Chapter 15**

           [ _I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed / And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. / (I think I made you up inside my head.)_ ]: Sylvia Plath, “Mad Girl’s Love Song” (1951); read the full text [here](http://www.neuroticpoets.com/plath/poem/madgirl/)

            [. . . Bilbo baking bread . . .]: in case you’re also of the baking ilk, the recipe is [here](http://www.foodiewithfamily.com/2011/03/04/braided-semolina-bread/)

            [. . . Bilbo fighting with the NYT crossword . . .]: NYT = The New York Times, an American daily newspaper published in New York City since 1851, the most popular newspaper in the nation. New crossword puzzles appear every day in the Arts section, with the difficulty increasing as the week goes (easiest on Mondays, then progressively harder). Bilbo’s university provides free papers for students, so he does/attempts the crossword daily, and at least makes an effort to read the actual news.

            [He never did finish Badiou.]: see Chapter 11

            [It’s fitting, Bilbo thinks, closing his eyes, that Thorin’s note should have closed with lyrics, and that they should have been Springsteen . . .]: The song is “Youngstown,” from the fantastic album _The Ghost of Tom Joad_ (1995). Like many of Springsteen’s songs, it’s about a town that’s fallen upon hard times, about the effects of war and history via one family’s tale. As Springsteen said before one live performance, “This song is about losing everything you had, if you’ve played by all the rules.”

 

**Chapter 16**

[Ford Madox Ford lies open on Bilbo's lap . . .]: see Chapter 2

[. . . he has to do the first 90 lines of "The Dream of the Rood" . . .]: One of the earliest Christian poems (possibly the oldest poem in general) in Old English lit, a "dream poem" in alliterative verse. The narrator dreams a vision of himself speaking with the cross. "Rood" translates to the modern "crucifix." Author unknown, though speculated to be possibly Caedmon or Cynewulf. 

[. . . a facsimile of the  _Peniarth 16_ manuscript]: I think Ori explains this fairly well

[ _Rōd wæs ic āræred_. . .]: Modern English translation, roughly: "Rood was I reared. I lifted a mighty King, Lord of the Heavens, dared not to bend. With dark nails they drove me through; on me those sores are seen, open malice-wounds; I dared not scathe anyone."

[ _You got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere._ ]: Tracy Chapman, "Fast Car," from her 1988 self-titled debut album; I also really like the cover by Boyce Avenue feat. Kina Grannis

[They end up watching an old Steve McQueen movie . . .]: though Bilbo doesn't remember, they watched  _Bullitt_ (1968)

 

**Chapter 17**

[. . . the U-W-C National Forest]: The Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest, in north-eastern Utah. It really is 2,169,596 acres. I think you can guess who the anonymous author of  _The Arrow_ 's articles is

[If his life were Norse & Anglo-Saxon literature, Bilbo thinks Thorin would be the berserker, he would be Cúchulainn mid-warp spasm, he would be Sir Gawain starting a war over the deaths of his brothers and bringing the entire perfect kingdom to its knees.]: The berserker in Norse literature are warriors who fought in trances of fury, often associated with bears or wolves, acting in a frenzy. Cúchulainn is an Irish mythological hero from the Ulster Cycle, son of the god Lugh, called Setanta until he killed Culann's guard-dog and then took the hound's place (translated, his name means "Culann's Hound"). He defended Ulster against Queen Medb and the armies of Connacht basically single-handedly in the  _Táin Bó Cúailnge_ ("Cattle Raid of Cooley"), and was known for his battle frenzy or warp spasm (in Thomas Kinsella's translation). Other interesting bits about Cúchulainn: he killed his own son, unknowingly, and when he was mortally wounded he tied himself to a standing stone in order to die on his feet. Sir Gawain is, of course, one of Arthur's knights of the round table, a son of King Lot of Orkney, brother to Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth, and Mordred. Depending on which version of the mythology you're reading, he is sometimes Arthur's  heir to the throne of Camelot. Beyond  _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ , in which he takes on a doomed quest, in the works of Sir Thomas Malory, Gawain's brothers (except for Mordred) are killed in battle when Lancelot tries to free Guinevere from execution (she's just been found unfaithful to Arthur). In revenge, Gawain convinces Arthur to start a war against Lancelot in France--during Arthur's absence, Mordred takes over the throne, and Gawain stands in the middle and tries to fight both Morded and Lancelot and absolutely everyone else. He's eventually mortally wounded by Lancelot, and repents on his deathbed to ask for Lancelot's forgiveness and his pledge to save Camelot. I have a lot of feelings about Sir Gawain. In case you couldn't tell.

[. . . Newtonian Physics . . .]: I'm not going to attempt to explain this any further; you can look that one up

[But in literature, there is Bergson and  _dur _ée__ . . . There is Woolf and there are "moments of being" . . .]: Henri Bergson (1859-1941), French philosopher, champion of experience and personal intuition rather than objective scientific rationalism.  _Dur _ée__ or "Duration" is his theory of time  & consciousness. Virginia Woolf has appeared in these notes before, and "moments of being" are exactly that: moments in which you feel you are truly "alive," immediately present.

[. . .  _Bildungsroman . . ._ ]: literally, "novel of formation/education/culture," a genre designation for coming-of-age stories

["The soul's life has seasons of its own . . ."]: The novel Bilbo is quoting here is Olive Schreiner,  _The Story of an African Farm_ (published 1883 psuedonymously as Ralph Iron), one of the first feminist novels and definitely a failed  _Bildungsroman_. It follows three children--Waldo, Em, Lyndall--from childhood to adulthood on a farm in South Africa. The section quoted here is known as "Times and Seasons" and appears in the middle of the novel. It's one of the things I've read in recent years that's had the most impact on my life. I highly recommend it. The last line Bilbo remembers is particularly relevant in  _Hobbit_ context, I think.

[. . . as if he has stumbled into a game of Oregon Trail . . .]: A computer game produced in 1974, and since released in various editions. It was meant to teach school kids about 19th century pioneer life and trans-migration westward in the United States, along the Oregon Trail. Many kids (myself included) who grew up with early computers in the house or school played this game for hours and hours. You put together your wagon party and supplies, choose your start and end points, and then travel and hunt and face bouts of dysyntery and the like. It's much more fun than it sounds. I still play it, sometimes--the 1996 version.

[The album's called  _The Lost One_ . . .]: By North Carolinan musician Barton Carroll. Released in January of 2008, folk and a little twang of southern bluegrass influence, I think. The first lines quoted are from track 2, "Superman." The verse that follows is from track 4, "Those Days Are Gone, And My Heart Is Breaking." If you listen to _Welcome to Night Vale_ , you've heard it as one of the "weather" tracks.

[It turns out that Gandalf drove up here, in a battered Aston Martin DB5 . . .]: the most famous of the Bond Cars (from the  _James Bond_ movie franchise); I just felt like giving Gandalf a really cool car, if one that's rather impractical for upstate New York

 

**Chapter 18**

[He’s been reading this novel called _Remainder_ in conjunction with his course on psychoanalytic theory . . .]:  _Remainder_ is a novel by Tom McCarthy, published 2007. (Incidentally, I did actually write a paper on it in relation to psychoanalytic theory.) Essentially, our narrator is a man who was a victim of some sort of mysterious accident who gets paid damages to an absurd degree and decides to spend his money creating (not re-creating) and enacting (not re-enacting) a series of events from his life, over and over again, until they are exactly as he wants (remembers) them to be. He's obsessed with patterns and the shape of a figure 8 and black cats on red roofs. It's a really excellent novel. Tom McCarthy himself is one of the founders of the International Necronautical Society, which is exactly as cool as it sounds. Here's a link to their [first manifesto](http://necronauts.net/manifestos/1999_times_manifesto.html), which notes, among other things, "That death is a type of space, which we intend to map, enter, colonise, and, eventually, inhabit." The INS is ridiculously fascinating to me, and they've definitely influenced a lot of my own writing projects, this one included.

[. . . a course whose primary topic is something called the “death drive” . . .]: Again, this was actually a course that I took. We read a lot of Sigmund Freud, Jacques Lacan, Jacques Derrida, a host of other French thinkers. I don't feel secure enough in my knowledge to explain the death drive to you. It's not as simple as Bilbo makes it out to be here. The concept originates in Freud's  _Beyond the Pleasure Principle_ (1920), a theory that all organic live strives to return to an inorganic (inanimate) state.

[. . . NPR’s All Songs Considered . . .]: National Public Radio, for any of you not in the U.S. (or, not in parts of the U.S. that can get reception); All Songs Considered is one of many of their shows; learn more [here](http://www.npr.org/music/)

[ _Home is where I want to be, pick me up and turn me round . . ._ ]: art rock/pop band Talking Heads, "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)," from their 1983 album  _Speaking in Tongues_ (also known as probably my favourite song in existence)

 

**Chapter 19**

[. . .  _plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose._ ]: "the more it changes, the more it's the same thing" (French)

[ _What do you know? This house is falling apart._ ]: indie rock band Walk the Moon, "Anna Sun," from their 2012 self-titled debut album

 

**Chapter 20**

[ _Well, I’ve seen them buried in a sheltered place in this town._ ]: a verse from Peter Gabriel's "Red Rain" ( _So_ , 1986), though here I'm thinking particularly of his live performance with Michael Stipe (of R.E.M.) and Natalie Merchant (formerly of 10,000 Maniacs); listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ED1ZIbbxPOc)

 

**Chapter 21**

[N/A]

 

**Chapter 22**

[He’s not in a Parisian novel, not in _Nadja_ or _A la Recherché . . ._ ]: André Breton's  _Nadja_   (1928) is a semi-autobiographical French Surrealist novel focused on the question of identity, in which the narrator spends a lot of time at various Parisian landmarks with a young woman called Nadja.  _A la recherché_ is  _A la Recherché de temps perdu_ , otherwise known as  _In Search of Lost Time_ (sometimes translated as  _Remembrance of Things Past_ ) by Marcel Proust, in seven volumes (1871-1922).

[If he were Orpheus, and Thorin were Eurydice . . .]: Thanks to tumblr user northerntrash, the Orpheus myth was on my mind while writing this chapter. If you're unfamiliar with it, Orpheus was a legendary Greek musician who set out to bring back his wife Eurydice from the Underworld (she fell into a nest of vipers and died), and so he sets out to charm Hades and Persephone with his music and they agree to let him guide her out provided that he walks in front of her and doesn't look back until they're out of the Underworld. Orpheus is too anxious, and glances back when he's left the Underworld but she's still there, and Eurydice gets trapped here. I'm most familiar with the Monteverdi opera, _L'Orfeo_ (1607), and haven't read the original myth in a while. The opera is excellent.

["In the last twenty-two years, twenty-nine people . . ."]: Many of you have already guessed that the guys are studying at Cornell University. There's some debate over the number (27, 29, 30, depending on your source), but what's indisputable is that there's an unfortunate history of suicides in the gorges. The other fact Elrond mentions, of the series of 6 student suicides in one year, is sadly true, and occurred in the 2009-2010 academic year. If you're ever in Ithaca, you'll see the fences over the bridges across the gorges, and now nets are hanging underneath most of the bridges as well. Two students, that I know of, have died in my time here, though neither of them have been ruled as suicides. It's obviously a massive problem, and it's devastating, and if you're ever in a position where you're considering suicide, please wait, please talk to someone (you're welcome to talk to me; though I'm not certified by any means, I'm more than willing to listen), please take care of yourself and stay around another day.

[". . . when Milstein was built the year after . . . the third floor of Rand . . ."]: Milstein Hall (the architecture studio) was built in 2011, and Rand Hall is another building that houses studio space, classrooms, and the Fine Arts Library. Both, in addition to The Foundry, are right on the corner by the bridge over the gorge that separates North Campus from Central Campus.

[Four in the morning seems the right time for Kierkegaard.]: Søren Aabye Kierkegaard was aDanish philosopher, theologian, existentialist (1813-1855) who wrote primarily on how to live as an individual, privileging concrete humanity rather than abstract "all of humanity," and dealing with questions of angst and despair and faith. Bilbo is reading  _Stages on Life's Way_ (1845), ostensibly on religion and love and marriage, but the third section, "Quidam's Diary," proposes to be a manuscript discovered by a monk and telling the story of a young man whose engagement was suddenly broken off, and he has lost his love. I kind of love Kierkegaard a lot, and will gladly quote him at length to you, but that is probably not what you're here for.

[“distant bodies eclipsing each other / with versions of gravity and light”]: A line from Bruce Smith's poem ["What Are They Doing in the Next Room"](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/what-are-they-doing-next-room) (2014). Bruce is fantastic, a really sharp guy and a wonderful reader and about one of the coolest poets you might ever meet. He teaches at Syracuse University. Check out his work, particularly his book  _Devotions_.

[Hannah Arendt]: German-American political theorist and "philosopher" (1906-1975); though she didn't like the term, in some ways it does apply. Best known for her work on the banality of evil, the  _vita activa_ , and  _Homo faber_. Bilbo's writing on the chapter on "Action" from  _The Human Condition_  (1958).

[“Here is a place of disaffection”]: A line from T.S. Eliot (1888-1965, born in America but became a British Subject in 1927 and is often counted amongst the Brits, a major 20th century poet); specifically, from "Burnt Norton," the first of the  _Four Quartets_ (1943).

[Bilbo climbs past the oaks, coasts down past the lilacs . . .]: Yes, the Arboretum does really have a hill of oaks, followed by a lilac grove. The symbolism was irresistible. Oaks, of course, for Thorin Oakenshield; purple lilacs for the first emotions of love.

[ _Well, if it's better that way_. . .]: Bilbo is listening to Lauren O'Connell's album  _Quitters_ (2012). The first track, quoted here, is called "Every Space." Tracks 1-4 (but really, all of her work) are particularly relevant to this story. I highly recommend [listening](http://laurenoconnell.bandcamp.com/album/quitters) to it. _  
_


	2. HTW fic chapters in chronological order

 

 

 **(chapter 6 memory)** 15 July, Sunday: Bilbo’s mother’s funeral

 **(chapter 1, section 2)** 18 August, Saturday: Bilbo moves into his attic apartment

 **(chapter 2, section 1)** 17 October, Wednesday: Gandalf’s meddling phonecall

 **(chapter 3, section 1)** 20 October, Saturday: first meeting at Saturday workshop

 **(chapter 11, section 1)** 26 October, Friday: second meeting, Thorin takes Bilbo out on the lake in his boat

 **(chapter 4, section 1)** 31 October, Wednesday: Bilbo worries

 **(chapter 4, section 1)** 03 November, Saturday: Bilbo goes back to the studio and they argue and   listen to David Byrne

 **(chapter 4, section 1)** 08 November, Thursday: Bilbo gets his first e-mail from Thorin

 **(chapter 15 memory)** 20 November, Tuesday: Thorin takes Bilbo for bagels

 **(chapter 10, section 1)** 29 November, Thursday: Thanksgiving with Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin

 **(chapter 16)** 02 December, Sunday: Thorin meets Bilbo at the coffee shop, the lake in the snow, “Fast Car,” first kiss with mixed results, Bilbo gets drunk

 **(chapter 16)** 03-06 December, Monday-Thursday: Bilbo’s week falls apart

 **(chapter 2, section 2)** 06 December, Thursday: Thorin gives Bilbo his mp3 player

 **(chapter 5)** 15 December, Saturday: winter break, Woody Guthrie, Thorin asks Bilbo to watch Erebor

 **(chapter 5)** 17 December, Monday: Bilbo goes to stay at Thorin’s garage and watch Erebor, buys a cellphone

 **(chapter 6)** 18 December, Tuesday: Bilbo in the garage, photo album, “The Magnificent Seven,”   texting Thorin

 **(chapter 6)** 19-22 December, Wednesday-Saturday: Bilbo in the garage still, alone with Erebor

 **(chapter 8, section 1)** 23 December, Sunday: Thorin comes back from Toronto, Christmas decorating

 **(chapter 8, section 1)** 24 December, Monday: Christmas Eve, falling asleep on the couch

 **(chapter 8, section 1)** 25 December, Tuesday: Christmas

 **(chapter 8, section 1)** 26 December, Wednesday: Bilbo feels like he’s been staying in the garage too long, but continues to stay anyway, more family talk  & talk about the photo album

 **(chapter 7)** 15 January, Tuesday: Bilbo and Thorin in the studio, translating French, Thorin starts to tell his family story, Bilbo gets sick

 **(chapter 9, section 1)** 15 January, Tuesday: Thorin takes sick Bilbo back to the garage  & looks after him but also makes him spill his own family story

 **(chapter 9, section 1)** 16 January, Wednesday: Thorin takes care of Bilbo, _Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade_, Bilbo stands up to Thorin

 **(chapter 12, section 1)** 24 January, Thursday: Bilbo’s family story, talk about fathers, talk about the burning of Erebor/the desolation of Smaug

 **(chapter 10, section 2)** 25 February, Monday: Bilbo contemplates breaking his arm, Thorin makes a deal with Bilbo

 **(chapter 18)** early March: Bilbo meets Dwalin at the Green Dragon, Thorin takes Bilbo to see the playground, driving lessons 

 **(chapter 11, section 2)** 19 March, Tuesday: Bilbo takes Thorin up on his deal, Nick Cave song, they part ways for 3 days

 **(chapter 1, section 1)** 31 March, Sunday: dinner at Thorin’s

 **(chapter 3, section 3 flashback)** 07 April, Sunday: "the disastrous dinner" at Thorin's

 **(chapter 3, section 2)** 09 April, Tuesday: Bilbo thinking back to the weekend dinner at Thorin’s

 **(chapter 4, section 2)** 12 April, Friday: the “not your boyfriend” dinner

 **(chapter 8, section 2)** 18 April, Thursday: showdown in the parking lot with Azog and Thorin

 **(chapter 13)** 20 April, Saturday: Thorin throws Bilbo into an elevator, Azog is a violent creep, Thorin wants to kill somebody but Bilbo talks him down  & he stays the night at the attic instead

 **(chapter 14)** 21 April, Sunday: the day after Azog’s attack, Bilbo refuses Thorin’s help and spends a week falling to pieces, calls Gandalf, then hides out for 6 days

 **(chapter 11, section 3)** 27 April, Saturday: “when it finally happens,” on the couch in Thorin’s apartment

 **(chapter 12, section 2)** 29 April, Monday: Thorin’s advisors are angry, Bilbo makes Thorin promise to say goodbye before he leaves, they see each other every day that week

 **(chapter 9, section 2)** 03 May, Friday: “Jungleland,” Thorin tells Bilbo he’s leaving and not coming back, swimming in the lake

 **(chapter 15)** 12 May, Sunday: Thorin’s gone, and Bilbo tries to figure out what to do next

 **(chapter 15)** 13 May, Monday: Bilbo thinks about going after Thorin, makes a list

  **(chapter 17)** 14 May, Tuesday: Bilbo writes a French exam, goes for a run in the rain, and learns some things from Gandalf

 **(chapter 19)** 15 May, Wednesday: Bilbo flies out west

 **(chapter 20)** 16 May, Thursday: Bilbo and Thorin go up to Erebor and spend the night

 **(chapter 21)** 17 May, Friday: morning on Erebor, the Durin house, fight in the graveyard, and the drive to the airport

 **(chapter 22)** still 17 May, Friday: Bilbo meets Elrond, gets back to his attic

 **(chapter 22)** 18 May, Saturday: Bilbo e-mails Thorin

 **(chapter 22)** 19 May, Sunday: bicycle ride to the dog park

 **(chapter 22)** 23 May, Thursday: laundry

 **(chapter 22)** 27 May, Monday: Bilbo writes his final paper, cleans his attic

 **(chapter 22)** 18 June, Tuesday: Bilbo goes to Balin's house, Thorin calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since some people had been asking, and I imagine others are confused (I mean, I was confused . . .), here's a listing of the fic chapters/sections in chronological order, progressing through the year from one summer to the next. I'll update as the story continues. 
> 
> Hope this helps clear up any lingering confusion!


	3. first outtake: sometime between Monday the 29th of April and Friday the 3rd of May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been saying since the “end” of HTW that I'm not done in this 'verse. I'm going to be using this “HTW: extras” file as a place to start putting up things like this, in-betweens and scenes I didn't have time to write earlier, one-shots that fit within the larger 'verse. I do still plan to go back and tell some parts of Thorin's side of the story, but those will get their own title & posting. Just to clarify.

 

 

 

> Because the thing about things
> 
> is that they can start meaning things nobody actually said.
> 
> \--Amanda Palmer, “[The Thing About Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYy4DNwnsms)”

 

I.

They stumble back into the garage half draped over each other, Thorin’s hair dripping, Bilbo’s nose cold pressed against his neck, Ere underfoot. The dog’s the only one who’s really happy about this situation. He shakes himself off in the mudroom and then looks up at them expectantly, tilts his head towards the door. “No,” Thorin says, his voice firm but a smile on his lips, “we’re not going back out there. Get inside, you.”

          It’s raining as hard as it has ever rained outside. Spring hasn’t hit its warmth yet; fog still clings to the cold waters of the lake. Bilbo drips on the doormat as Thorin wrings water out of his ponytail. “I am never forgetting an umbrella again,” Bilbo says, squelching his toes in wet socks, wet sneakers. Thorin laughs.

          “It’s a good look on you,” he says.

          “Liar.”

          “I hardly look any better.”

          Objectively, perhaps, but subjectively Bilbo disagrees. Even soaking wet, his shirt and jacket clinging to him, his jeans hopelessly muddied, Thorin is striking. It is, Bilbo thinks, something to do with the nose. Or the height.

          “Come on, there’s always a draft by the door when the wind blows up off the lake.”

          “I’ll get your floor wet.”

          “It’s concrete,” Thorin says, and shrugs. “We can mop it later. Ere’s already beaten you to it, anyway.” The dog is roaming the perimeter of the main room, eyeing the storm through the windows. “I’ll get you a towel.”

          Bilbo leans against the wall to pull apart the soaked laces of his sneakers. He wishes he hadn’t worn jeans. There are few things as uncomfortable as wet denim. His legs are itching already. Thorin steps out of the bathroom already halfway out of his shirt and Bilbo’s breath catches. He can’t look away, but the towel that hits him in the face spares him being caught staring for too long. Rubbing at his hair with stiff fingers, Bilbo swallows, clears his throat. When he looks up Thorin is bent before the woodstove, twisting newspaper into a firestarter to get the updraft going.

          “Come on,” Thorin says again, and jerks his head, calling Bilbo forward. “Get over here. Don’t freeze in the doorway.” So Bilbo follows, taking care to skirt the edges of the rug, though Ere’s already curled up on it, in prime position by the woodstove. “I’ll have it going in a minute.”

          “Why can’t you just have normal heat?” Bilbo mutters.

          “What, and pay through the roof to keep this place warm?”

          “Yes.”

          “It’s not that bad.”

          “It might as well be February still.”

          Thorin turns to look at Bilbo, shivering there on the concrete floor, towel over his shoulders, wool sweater weighted down from the rain. Bilbo drops his gaze to the floor—wet, muddy socks, a hole in the left one just at the last toe—and tries not to fidget. “Didn’t know you were that cold,” Thorin says, the words coming out clipped. Then he turns back to the stove, swearing softly under his breath. He’s burnt his fingers, the match forgotten for too long. “So much for the Boy Scout way,” he sighs, striking another match.

          “What?”

          “Only use one match to light a fire,” Thorin explains. He sets the kindling alight, blows gently until the wood sparks and catches. “Otherwise it’s wasteful. Come closer. I’ll get you a blanket. Or you could take a shower, warm up.”

          “That . . . might actually be good.”

          “Go ahead. I swear it will be warmer out here when you come out. Scout’s honour.” Thorin’s fingers are dark, sooty, and he leaves a streak on his cheek when he goes to push wet hair out of his eyes and give the three-fingered salute. 

          It’s dark in the bathroom, rain tapping at the window pane. Bilbo pushes aside the curtain around the tub and turns on the faucet. A thin trickle of water comes out, fades into a slow drip. Frowning, Bilbo turns the handle again, coaxes out another few drips, and then no more. When he goes to switch the overhead light on, nothing happens. “Thorin?” he calls, feeling for the doorknob.

          “Yeah? What, do you not know how to work a faucet?”

          “The power’s out.”

          “What?”

          Bilbo steps out of the bathroom, pulling the towel tighter across his shoulders. “Power’s out,” he repeats.

          “Oh. Fuck.” Thorin rocks back on his heels. “That means the pressure in the well pump will be down, too. I can . . . I can just drive you back to your place.”

          “Why?”

          “You probably have power. I lose it a lot out here, but you’re on the city grid and sewer system and all that. Should be fine to shower there.” Thorin stands, starts to put his shirt back on.

          “No, it’s—” Bilbo doesn’t want to leave, but how to say it? “I’ll just take the blanket.”

          “You’re sure?”

          “Yes.”

          Thorin kneels by the trunk behind the couch and comes up with an armful of blankets. “They’re not the softest,” he says, “but they are warm.” Bilbo waits, hands out. Thorin doesn’t pass them over. “But you’re not going to get any warmer in wet jeans,” he says. “I’ll get you change of clothes, at least.”

          “I don’t want to get them dirty.”

          “Bilbo. Don’t be an idiot. Go sit by the fire. I’ll be right back.” Thorin hauls himself up into the loft. Bilbo can hear him rummaging around in the closet—probably trying to find the smallest shirt he owns. Shifting closer to the stove, Bilbo shivers and glances over at Ere, who looks enviably at ease.

          “How do you do it, then? The fur?” he asks, and Ere just stares back.

          “Did you say something?” Thorin calls.

          “What? Oh, uh, no.”

          “Here.” Thorin tosses down some sweatpants that Bilbo has worn before, and a faded t-shirt with a logo too worn to decipher. “I’m going to get changed too. Be down in a minute.”

          “Sure.” Bilbo is reluctant to let go of the warmth of his sweater, even if he does smell like a damp sheep or two, but he pulls it off, peels his wet t-shirt off cold skin, and shivers again in the open air. Even with the heat coming off the woodstove—and how much colder would it be if the garage had electric heat now?—he’s still freezing. He towels off as quickly as possible and slips the t-shirt on, bunching it up at the bottom hem while he toes off his socks, trips out of his jeans and then, with a quick glance to the ladder to make sure it’s still clear, his underwear. There is something very strange about being in someone else’s house, wearing their sweatpants without underwear, he thinks, as he pulls them up over his hips and cinches the drawstring as tight as it can go. Even now, after everything that has happened, it is still strange.

          Thorin descends the ladder in another pair of sweatpants, towel over his shoulder, still-wet hair tied in a messy bun. No shirt. He opens the woodstove door and pushes another log inside, then drops his towel on Ere’s head. Ere shakes it off and they wrestle for a minute or two, and Bilbo watches the muscles on Thorin’s back flex in the shadows filling the garage as the hour grows later and thinks that he is in over his head. When Thorin turns and looks at him over his shoulder, Bilbo forces a smile, and tries to stop shivering.

          “Still cold?” Thorin asks, rising up and leaving the dog alone. Ere goes over to his cushion beneath the window and flops down.

          “Unfortunately. You’re not?” Bilbo asks, gesturing with one hand to the glaringly obvious fact that Thorin didn’t bother to put a shirt on.

          “It’s fine,” Thorin says. He picks up the armful of blankets from the couch. Instead of shaking one free and handing it to Bilbo, though, he smiles, slow and wide, and smothers Bilbo in the entire heap at once, knocking him backwards onto the couch and pressing him into the cushions.

          “Thorin!” Bilbo yelps, and tries to hit him, but his arms are trapped by at least five layers of wool. It’s useless. He sinks into the cushion, blankets scratchy against his face, a little bit dusty, and resigns himself to the weight of Thorin half on top of him, strong arms holding him hostage. “You’re impossible,” Bilbo says, his voice muffled by the blankets, but he can still hear Thorin laughing in response. It takes him a moment to work his head free enough to breathe. Thorin’s face is very close, his bare arms outstretched, pinning Bilbo’s shoulders. There is a scar just under his collarbone on the left side, almost like a bullet hole, an indentation. Round and pale.

          “Warmer?” Thorin asks, and Bilbo wants to hit him again just for looking so smug.

          “No,” he lies. “Get off. You’re heavy.”

          Thorin doesn’t get off, but he does ease up enough for Bilbo to get his legs in a more comfortable position, and free his arms from the thicket of blankets. He squirms a little, trying to get his back flat against the cushions. Thorin is still looking at him, his hands still holding onto the blankets, his legs still mostly atop Bilbo’s.

          “Are you going to share these?” Thorin asks, nodding at the blankets.

          “I thought they were all for me,” Bilbo retorts, but he lifts up the edge of the bottom one. Thorin shifts until they are together underneath the heap, legs tangled together. The couch is not quite large enough. They keep knocking their elbows together, trying to get settled. Thorin’s fingers are icy against Bilbo’s wrist as he pulls the blankets more closely around them, icy as they trail down Bilbo’s arm, shockingly cold where the too-loose waistband of the sweatpants has slipped to reveal bare skin.

          “What about now?” Thorin asks, leaning in closer. His hair drips onto Bilbo’s shoulder. “Are you warmer now?” His fingers trace the hem of his t-shirt against Bilbo’s stomach.

          “No,” Bilbo insists, but he can feel his face betraying him.

          “Really?”

          “Really.”

          “Hmmm.” Thorin’s fingers are tracing circles on the soft skin over Bilbo’s hip bones, damp and teasing. Bilbo flinches from the touch, ticklish or cold, or both—it doesn’t matter. He shifts his weight, props himself up on his elbows as Thorin leans back, frees his other hand from where it had been wrapped in the blankets. As he runs his hands up Bilbo’s ribcage, Ere lets out of a soft whuff of breath and pads over to the couch.

          “. . . Thorin. Your dog is looking at us.”

          “Sshhh. Ere, go away.”

          “Thorin.”

          “It’s fine. Ignore him.” Thorin ducks his head, leans in. Bilbo looks up at him and is about to speak when he feels a cold dog nose against his shoulder. “Ere, come on,” Thorin says, his voice cracking, rough, and he reaches out to nudge the dog away. Ere dodges and Thorin overbalances, falling against Bilbo and catching himself on one arm. With a heavy sigh, he meets Bilbo’s eyes and leans in, knocks their foreheads together.

          “Thoin, I can’t . . . Your dog is looking at us.”

          “I know,” Thorin laughs, helpless, his shoulders shaking with it. “I know.”

          Bilbo has to close his eyes—Thorin is too close, and his glasses are fogging up. They lie there, awkwardly, laughing with more breath than sound, as Erebor watches them, unperturbed.

          “Damn dog,” Thorin huffs, his lips almost against Bilbo’s skin.

          “Ere’s a good dog,” Bilbo insists.

          “He’s a menace.”

          “You were going to bring him to Canada, remember.”

          “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

          “No, I really don’t either.”

          With a long exhale—a rush of air against Bilbo’s cheek—Thorin leans back, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Erebor,” he says, sternly. “Place.” The dog looks at him for a second, considering, but is too well trained to ignore an order. It’s three, maybe four steps away from the couch to Ere’s place on the cushion, but the dog steps slowly enough that he could have crossed the room in the time he takes to get to it.

          “He’s still looking,” Bilbo points out.

          Thorin groans, and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. All right. Let’s just . . . I was going to say watch something, but without power . . . Guess we can just watch the fire.” He pulls back and tugs one blanket away, starts to settle on the other end of the couch. Bilbo gives him a long look, considering. He can’t deny that he has warmed up. But he is not yet _warm_.

          “Thorin,” he says. “You didn’t have to . . . stop.”

          “I thought—”

          “I just . . . It feels weird. With Ere watching. But we could still— I mean.” Bilbo knows he is blushing. He’s never known how to talk about this. He looks up, catches Thorin’s eyes, pleads with him wordlessly: Don’t make me be the one to say it.

          Thorin, of course, doesn’t. In this, as in so many other things, he may as well be able to read Bilbo’s mind. “Bring the blankets,” he says, “and follow me.”

          The skylight in the loft shows only grey—clouds, rain, leaves bleached of colour by the oncoming evening—and the cotton sheets of the bed are cool against Bilbo’s bare toes, the small of his back where Thorin’s t-shirt has ridden up. Thorin’s fingers are still like ice as they slip under the t-shirt and feel out the lines of his ribs, the softness of his stomach. Bilbo tenses and flinches and tries to get even by reaching out with his own hands and finding the damp bare stretch of Thorin’s back. “Why are your fingers so cold but not the rest of you?” he breathes, and wants to press closer.

          “Cold hands, warm heart,” Thorin whispers in his ear, and then he’s mouthing along Bilbo’s jaw, hands close against Bilbo’s sides. “Isn’t that what they say?”

          “I don’t know if I should believe them.” Bilbo is grateful for the darkness. He certainly doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now. And Thorin, well, it’s so much easier to run his fingers through Thorin’s hair and tug him closer and shift their legs together when he doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he looks stupid. He probably does. But Thorin doesn’t seem to care, and Ere can’t climb ladders without help. Bilbo knows what Thorin looks like without ever needing to look, at this point.

          “Believe them,” Thorin says, and brings his hands up, one on either side of Bilbo’s head, holding him there against the pillows. The wool blanket hangs off his shoulders, closing off Bilbo’s view, and Thorin leans in, kissing him with a hard press of lips and teeth. Bilbo gets a hand on the back of Thorin’s neck, fingers finding the ridge of a vertebra. Outside, the wind is howling. Inside, Bilbo’s breath is loud even to his own ears. Thorin takes Bilbo’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, shifts his hips farther up on the bed. He captures one of Bilbo’s hands and drags it up across his chest, places it over his heart. “See?” he asks. “Warmth.”

          “You’re ridiculous,” Bilbo tells him, and leans up, presses his own lips against Thorin’s chapped ones, feels the rub of Thorin’s beard on his chin. “If everyone knew how ridiculous you are,” he says, pulling back a little, “you wouldn’t have half the reputation you do.”

          “You’d better not be the one to tell them,” Thorin says.

          “What would you do if I did?”

          “You really want to know?”

          “Enlighten me.”

          “Really?”

          “Thorin,” Bilbo says, exasperated.

          “You asked for it.” Thorin’s got that glint in his eye, the one Bilbo has learned to be wary of, but it’s too late. Before he can even think about reacting, Thorin’s caught him up in the blankets again and rolled him over, just barely managing to stay on the bed. Bilbo can feel the sweatpants slipping lower as Thorin gets a leg on either side of his hips and pins him face-down to the bed. Still-cold fingertips push up his t-shirt, shove it over his arms just enough to trap them there above his head. When Thorin starts tickling him, he can do nothing but squirm and laugh and arch his back, trying to get enough leverage to escape. He can’t, of course. Thorin is so much stronger than him, and—Bilbo has learned—somewhat merciless in his tickling. It comes from having siblings, Bilbo supposes, this instant skill in teasing, this ease with touch. It is not something Bilbo has ever learned, nor wanted to learn. Until now.

          Thorin finally relents and Bilbo catches his breath enough to push himself up on his elbows, craning his neck to glare at Thorin. “Rude,” he pants. “Very rude.”

          Unapologetic, Thorin smirks and turns his touch to a gentler one instead, a firm pressure kneading Bilbo’s back. Bilbo can only hold the glare for so long before he sinks down into the pillows, boneless, all of the tension draining away. “You did ask,” Thorin reminds him.

          “I did. Should know better by now.” Bilbo swallows a moan as Thorin’s fingers find a tight spot just at the back of his neck and massage it out.

          “Bilbo,” Thorin says, suddenly gone quiet. Serious. Questioning. His hands move in slow drags, fingertips finally warming. Bilbo nods in reply, his throat too tight to speak as Thorin drags a line down his spine. He doesn’t stop when his hands reach the dip in Bilbo’s back, going lower, rough against the smooth skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants. Bilbo wonders, briefly, if it’s strange for Thorin too, having someone else wearing his clothing. But then he thinks that Thorin probably doesn’t worry about things like that, and it’s a moot point anyway as Thorin tugs the pants down. He pauses when Bilbo starts to try to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

          “I’m stuck,” Bilbo says, nodding to his arms wrapped up in the t-shirt he hasn’t managed to shake loose.

          “Yeah.”

          “So get me un-stuck.”

          “Hmmm. What’ll you give me for it if I do?”

          “You’re awful,” Bilbo says, and fights his way free of the t-shirt without any help. “No manners. At all.”

          “Sorry,” Thorin breathes, damply, into sensitive skin.

          “No you’re not,” Bilbo says, fighting back a gasp. His sweatpants—Thorin’s sweatpants—are still bunched up around his knees when Thorin eases off for a moment, and he would protest, but then there is a solid weight over him, bare skin pressing chest-to-back, and Thorin’s arms come up to rest on either side of his head. Like a shield, covering him. Thorin is definitely warm now, and Bilbo shudders a little, his hips pushing into the mattress without conscious thought. He can feel Thorin behind him. They rock together; it’s not enough friction, but Bilbo doesn’t exactly want it to stop. He muffles a groan when Thorin brings a hand back down to grip his right hip and his fingers clench on the sheets.

          “You’re right,” Thorin says. “I’m not.”

          Breathing raggedly, Bilbo lets himself be nudged over, the air a shock after being pressed into the mattress. Thorin’s eyes are dark as he pulls away, his lips marking out a line down Bilbo’s stomach to the juncture of hip and leg. Bilbo nearly chokes when Thorin’s mouth settles on him, when Thorin’s hands tug on his hips as if urging him upward. Pressing the back of a fist to his mouth, Bilbo closes his eyes and lets himself be urged.

          The slide of a hand down off his hip pulls him back, opens his eyes. With a careful glance upwards, Thorin draws away, not far but enough to give them both some space. “No?” he asks.

          The question is simple, and asked without assumption. Bilbo knows that. He still feels his cheeks burn as he turns aside, looking very intently at the wall. “I . . . I don’t know,” he manages.

          “Hey,” Thorin says. “Hey, Bilbo. It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

          “It’s not that I— I don’t know what I’m doing.”

          “Sorry,” Thorin says. He pulls away, swings his legs off the edge of the bed. Bows his head. “Look, we—”

          “No, no, Thorin, that’s not . . .” Read my mind, Bilbo thinks; please read my mind. Thorin blinks. “Oh, hell. I’ve never done, er, that, really, before. At all. So I’m a little bit . . . unsure.” A lot unsure. Bilbo doubts if it is possible to be any more unsure. Thorin looking at him like he’s just crawled out of some cave is not exactly helping.

          “You’ve never done that before?” Thorin asks.

          “No.”

          “ ‘That’ being . . . ?”

          “Umm. Your hand. Where it's . . .”

          “Oh.”

          “Yeah. So . . . ah. Yeah.” If someone could just smother Bilbo with a pillow and let him conveniently pass out, it would be far, far better than continuing to not talk about what’s going on. He wonders, briefly, if it is possible to smother himself.

          “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to.”

          Not the response he wants from Thorin, or at least not the response Bilbo was expecting. Does he want to let it go at that? “I didn’t say no.”

          “You didn’t,” Thorin agrees, and looks at him for a long—awkward—moment. “Are you going to say yes?”

          “I’m going to say . . . slowly?” Bilbo cringes, blushing furiously, suddenly far too warm. He should go back outside, he thinks. Cool his head. Grow up.

          “Slowly is good,” Thorin says, and there is not enough air in the room between them when he leans in and kisses Bilbo, a soft press of lips chased by the tip of the tongue. “All right? I'll take care of you.” Bilbo nods, and pulls Thorin’s head down for another kiss. Slowly. Does Thorin do anything slowly?

          Thorin works his way back down, coaxing with his mouth, with clever hands. This time, when Thorin’s hand shifts lower and the drag of a finger comes, Bilbo gives a short nod, and then a muffled groan as it traces the smallest of circles. Thorin’s mouth eases off, and he pulls his hand back, and Bilbo is ashamed at his own reaction. There is nothing inherently shameful about it, he knows, but all the same, lessons learned in so many years of Sunday school are hard to unlearn. As Thorin leans over him and opens one of the nightstand drawers, Bilbo takes a second to clear those thoughts from his mind. This is Thorin. He wants this, wants Thorin.

          “You look lost,” Thorin says, nudging Bilbo’s stomach with an elbow as he fiddles with the cap on a nondescript jar.

          “Just . . . thinking.”

          “Second thoughts?”

          “Unwanted thoughts,” Bilbo says, and when Thorin frowns he’s quick to add, “Don’t stop.”

          “Yeah?”

          “Yes.”

          So Thorin doesn’t stop. Bilbo fights the feeling of strangeness that comes but at least it covers up the shame. Not that he’s ever going to be able to look at Thorin’s hands in the same way again. How do people do this? Bilbo wonders, trying and failing to keep his hips still. How do people do this and not feel completely overwhelmed all the time—during, after, into the indefinite future? If they lined their hands up against each other, Thorin’s fingers would be longer, his palms more callused, more capable. Bilbo closes his eyes, tries to stop thinking. It seems to take only moments, far too few moments. When he looks up, Thorin is staring at him, inscrutable in the shadows. They should have at least lit a candle, one of the ones in hurricane glass on the shelf by the woodstove. Or is it better that it’s dark?

          “Thorin,” Bilbo says weakly, after Thorin has withdrawn and yet not said anything.

          “Bilbo,” Thorin counters, with just a hint of teasing in his voice.

          “You . . . I mean . . .”

          “Eloquent.” Thorin comes close enough that Bilbo can tell he is smiling, a real smile, earnest. “Very eloquent.”

          “Stop,” Bilbo says, fighting the urge to hit his head against the wall.

          “What?”

          “I can’t . . . joke about this.”

          “You read too many books.”

          “What does that have to do with anything?”

          “Everything’s mental for you. Can’t it just be something you enjoy? Something physical?”

          “I don’t know how to not think about it.”

          Thorin laughs, and strokes his fingers along Bilbo’s sides. Bilbo is too languid to protest. “That’s all right,” Thorin says. “I won’t hold it against you.” There is a bad pun in there, Bilbo thinks, somewhere, but he is also too distracted to find it. Thorin lowers himself down, kisses Bilbo again, and Bilbo comes out of his cloud just enough to realise that this has all been very one-sided and Thorin is hard against his hip, thrusting gently.

          “Do you . . . want me to, um, help?” Bilbo asks. The wall is close enough to stare at, but too far to bang his head against. Small mercies.

          “You are helping,” Thorin says, and his voice sounds wrecked; he shifts position, finds an angle. “God, Bilbo . . . you are . . .”

          Having already proven himself utterly inept with words, Bilbo stops talking. Just reaches down. Thorin drops his head to meet Bilbo’s again, foreheads together as he moves against warm, still-damp skin and Bilbo’s deft but uncertain fingers, and Bilbo thinks that at least one of them knows what he is doing, at least one of them has some sense of direction. When Thorin brings a hand down to close around Bilbo’s own their eyes meet, a fierce glint of light in the dark of the loft.

          They wind up on their backs, Bilbo’s head pillowed on Thorin’s outstretched arm, tucked into his side. Rain drums against the skylight. The rise and fall of Thorin’s ribcage is a fascinating thing. If this is how it ends, Bilbo thinks, perhaps it isn’t as bad.

           

II.

In the morning, the skies have started to clear. The world outside is grey and damp, strangely unreal. Lying half-curled into Thorin’s side, Bilbo listens to the drip of the gutters and tries to ignore the fact that he’s inconveniently hungry. It’s warm beneath the sheets, the pile of old army blankets, Thorin’s arm flung out across his stomach. It’s warm and he doesn’t want to leave. He thinks he is starting to understand, now, why so many people talk about lazy days spent entirely in bed. It isn’t so much of a sad thing, if you’re doing it with someone else. Watching Thorin sleep is probably, on some level, a little bit strange. But Bilbo cannot take his eyes off him. Thorin’s face is nearly buried in the pillow—how is he even breathing?—and his hair-tie must have fallen out overnight. The curve of a muscled shoulder is just visible between tangled hair, one small braid tumbled over bare skin, and rumpled sheets. If he were an artist, Bilbo thinks, this would be what he would want to draw: bodies, secure in their spaces. At peace. Like monuments.

          Thorin’s fingers twitch lightly against Bilbo’s stomach and he swallows a nervous laugh. He was right; he never will be able to look at those hands the same way again.

          The fire in the woodstove has long since gone out and it’s early enough that the chill in the air has yet to leave. Bilbo tucks his feet more securely into the blankets, inches closer to Thorin. His mouth tastes terrible—he never did brush his teeth last night—and his stomach is starting to protest the lack of breakfast, but a Baggins is nothing if not stubborn. He’s not leaving this bed until he absolutely has to, or a better offer comes along. Like, say, the couch, by the stove, and maybe if the power has come back on, an old movie on the television. A lazy weekday morning, never mind his French class, and Thorin’s studio hours. They could take Ere on a walk along the river’s swollen banks. When Bilbo was younger and the rains came and caused the creek below his house to overflow its banks, his father used to take him down and they would make tiny boats of twigs and leaves and set them afloat, bound for shipwreck. Thorin could probably make quite a sturdy boat. Thorin has the kinds of hands that are equally good at building and taking apart.

          Except Bilbo very firmly wasn’t going to think about hands. Instead, he thinks about pancakes. More specifically, about the last time he made pancakes in Thorin’s garage, and Ere ate about half of them, and there was flour all over the floor, and Thorin had been texting him from another country. They’ve come so far, both of them, and yet not really gone anywhere. Is that always how it’s going to be? Bilbo feels like he’s getting better at speaking his mind, at figuring out his purpose, at leaving notes in his planner that are only semi-disparaging towards himself, but there are still so many things about Thorin that are just blank spaces on a map. He has seen how Thorin wakes up before, groggy and generally upset, but he doesn’t know the reasons for it. Will Thorin be that way now? If Bilbo were to inch a little closer, would he wake up? What kind of expression would be in those sea-blue eyes?

          Bilbo is a coward, and does not move. Thorin breathes soundly into his pillow. It can’t be six o’clock yet, the skies still too dim above them. After a while, after memorising every line and dip of Thorin’s face, Bilbo falls asleep again.

          They both wake, some hours later, to Erebor’s soft bark from the bottom of the ladder. “We’ve neglected him,” Bilbo says, his words muffled by the fact that he is speaking into Thorin’s arm, currently serving as his pillow.

          Thorin groans and flexes his arm, tugs Bilbo closer. He does not look upset. Far from it. There is a hint of a smile there, despite the tiredness of his eyes, and he leans in and kisses Bilbo before Bilbo can even worry about morning breath. “He’s not the one I’m worried about,” Thorin says, his lips brushing Bilbo’s as he speaks.

          “. . . What?”

          “I’m worried about you. And whatever monster you’ve swallowed.”

          Bilbo finds a pillow and smacks Thorin with it. “It’s well past breakfast. Normal people have eaten by now.”

          “Oh, you’re normal?” Thorin asks, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo hits him with the pillow again, and Thorin laughs and traps Bilbo’s hands. “Really?”

          “Hush, you.” Bilbo sticks his tongue out, for lack of being able to move his arms, and feels abruptly childish. Thorin, still laughing, shoves him into the mattress and rolls off the bed.

          “I’ll let Ere out if you start breakfast,” he says, already halfway down the ladder, pulling on a shirt as he goes. Bilbo flings the pillow after him anyway.

          Through the kitchen window as he stands at the stove making coffee, Bilbo can see Thorin chasing Ere around the yard, slipping on wet grass in unlaced boots. Whatever life he’s living right now is not his own; he knows that, and yet he continues living it. Is that what grad school is? Some temporary diversion, on borrowed time and university funding, always with an inevitable end? Thorin’s going to leave soon, and then . . . what, Bilbo’s going to stay and carry on until one day, some four or five years later, he leaves too? Is that what all of life is? His parents, it turns out, were living on borrowed time. They’ve left. Everyone leaves. Perhaps it’s time he started lowering his expectations.

          This dream life, this unreal world out the windows of dew-damp grass and mist over the river and a Thorin who smiles with sincerity—it’s like Eliot, isn’t it, “Unreal City, / Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,” except it’s grey fog, spring dawn. He wonders, setting out coffee mugs, if Thorin plays chess. He wonders if he should tell Thorin about how he almost drowned, once, and how he’s still sometimes afraid of water, and just how much faith he had all the way back in October to go out on a boat with a man he barely knew. How much faith it takes to live in a land whose rivers flood with the thaw every year. How tired he is of living on faith.

          Instead, he starts frying eggs and making toast—the power’s back and he can use the toaster, rather than the gas range—and when Erebor comes up to him and rubs a wet line across his leg he lets himself laugh, watches Thorin stretch and run his fingers through his hair. They sit around the kitchen in underwear and t-shirts, a little bit cold and a little bit awkward, and Bilbo wonders if he’s meant to leave afterwards. Isn’t that how these things work? What happens at night is not the same as what happens during the day, or that especially fraught time of “the morning after.” But Thorin does the dishes and offers him the first shower, and Bilbo spends a good ten minutes staring at the tile wall and thinking about how he’s ended up here. He wonders, wiping shampoo out of his eyes, what his parents would think. It was never really an issue for him, growing up; he was never interested enough in anyone, of any sex, and though there was an unspoken expectation from the wider family that he would, eventually, marry and have a kid or two, continue the “Baggins family name,” his parents were never particularly concerned about that. His mother probably would’ve liked Thorin. Would’ve wanted to feed him, and had him build a new set of trellises for the garden. Smiling a little at the thought of Thorin tangling with his mother’s rosebushes, Bilbo shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. His father is trickier to gauge, but Bilbo thinks that he probably would’ve liked Thorin too, once he got over the fact that no stance he took was ever going to be intimidating, not with their height difference. Still, they could have smoked together, on the back porch, and traded carpentry tips.

          Isn’t it some kind of milestone in your relationship when you’re thinking of introducing someone to your parents? Even if said parents aren’t around anymore? Neither of them really has to worry about that, Bilbo supposes, toweling his hair, and all of a sudden he’s sinking down to the floor and his chest is tight, his eyes are burning. Thorin finds him there, sitting on the linoleum, towel around his waist, looking at his hands in his lap and trying not to cry.

          “Bilbo, what’s wrong?”

          “Sorry,” Bilbo says, and pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath. His glasses are somewhere above him on the counter. Thorin is a dark blur, down on one knee next to him. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”

          “Bilbo.”

          “Just . . . being pathetic. Really, Thorin. It’s nothing.”

          “It’s not.”

          “. . . I really don’t want to talk about it.”

          Thorin reaches up and pulls down another towel, shakes it out over Bilbo’s shoulders. “Do you want to not talk about it on the couch?”

          Bilbo nods. “Could you just, uh, hand me my glasses?” While Thorin is looking elsewhere, he swipes the towel across his face. His cheeks are probably suspiciously flushed; he can blame it on the heat of the shower, or try to. Thorin hands him his glasses and Bilbo gets to his feet, keeping hold of his towel, though why he bothers, he can’t say. It seems important, somehow, stupidly, to retain at least that much modesty. He lets Thorin steer him to the couch and watches as Thorin stokes the fire in the woodstove, and then pointedly looks away when Thorin crouches at his feet.

          “If you’re sure—” Thorin asks, and Bilbo nods, just once, a duck of his chin. “Then I’m going to shower. But only if you’re going to be all right. I can just . . . I don’t know, sit here. Make you tea. Get Ere to do a trick.”

          “Go shower,” Bilbo says. Thorin stares at him, clearly unconvinced. He’s got his hands on his head, in his hair, the way he stands when he’s facing down a problem he doesn’t want to face. Which would make Bilbo the problem. “Go. Besides, Ere doesn’t even know any tricks.”

          “He does so,” Thorin says. “Ere, roll over.” The dog looks at him, unobliging. They engage in a staring contest and finally Ere rolls, just once. Then he comes over and jumps up on the couch, practically smothering Bilbo, and tilts his head towards Thorin. “Oh, what are you looking at?” Thorin grouses, and when no one says anything, he sighs and heads off to the shower.

          Bilbo drops his head to rest against warm dog body, puts his arms around the solid weight of Ere who is much too large to be a lap dog. He listens to the shower start, tries to match his breaths to the dog’s. It’s not fair. He and Thorin are, both of them, adults in little more than name; perpetual students, and for all the growing up Thorin has had to do over the years he is not a grown up. The years he has on Bilbo don’t mean anything, not really. Neither of them are ready for any of this. Thorin being slightly better adjusted—in whatever warped sense an alcohol problem and impeccable driving skills equate to “adjusted”—doesn’t matter. Slightly better than nothing is still, comparatively speaking, nothing. It isn’t fair.

          There’s no one Bilbo can talk to about this, which is the worst part. When you’ve got about one friend in the entire world, and they’re the one you’ve just had sex with, who do you tell that you’re feeling anxious about having sex? Having a relationship? Being, in any way, someone who lets themselves be cared about like that?

          He can’t tell Thorin. Should, probably, but can’t.

          By the time Thorin comes out of the shower, mercifully wearing a towel, Ere has relocated to the cushion just beside Bilbo, only mostly crushing him instead of entirely, and they are sitting quietly, watching the rain. Bilbo says nothing as Thorin climbs up into the loft, and Ere, undoubtedly sensing tension, flattens his ears to his head and turns away. What’s ridiculous, on top of pathetic, is how all these worries are only surfacing now. It wasn’t even their first time. He didn’t think about much of anything after that. So why now?

          It’s not a question of regretting what they did so much as worrying for what they’ll do next.

          “You want some clothes?” Thorin calls down from the loft, startling Bilbo. “You’ll catch a chill if you just sit there in a wet towel.”

          Trying to answer only lets out air and a strangled noise. Throat tight, Bilbo breathes, and breathes, and is just opening his mouth to try again when Thorin’s head appears above him, leaning over the low railing.

          “Bilbo? Do I need to do CPR or something?”

          “No,” Bilbo chokes out. Breathe, he tells himself; you’re being an idiot, and it will be fine.

          “Clothes?”

          “Yes.”

          “Right. Hang on.” Thorin pulls his head back, goes to dig up who knows what from his closet. Bilbo should really start leaving some clothes here. Except that would be another level of caring, wouldn’t it? Another one he’s not ready for. What does it mean, to have inserted yourself so seamlessly into another person’s space? He spends enough time here already. Has his own designated couch cushion. It shouldn’t be that big of a step to start leaving some clean underwear and a pair of sweatpants here, but it is. So he accepts what Thorin tosses to him, dresses quickly before Thorin comes down the ladder, before Ere turns back around. The thought of anyone looking at him right now is almost too much to bear. When Thorin does come down, he finds Bilbo curled into the couch—his couch cushion—with a pillow in his lap and Erebor on his feet, looking pointedly out the window. Bilbo listens, tense and waiting, as Thorin makes a sound that’s almost speech but then seems to think better of it, heads to the kitchen instead, starts opening cabinets and doing who knows what.

          The closest Bilbo can come to putting a name to what he’s feeling is homesickness. Where do you go, though, when you don’t have a home anymore and you’re feeling that way? Sort of nostalgic, sort of sad, generally overwhelmed—what’s the substitute? Until very recently, he would’ve thought it would be right here, exactly here, in Thorin’s garage while they laze around and don’t do anything in particular. But whatever illusion last night and this morning held has shattered. “Home” is not a temporary concept. “Home” needs permanence. Permanence needs more than a promise to say goodbye when you go; it needs you not to go at all.

           

III.

Thorin is humming, low and distracted, over the soft scratch of pencil on tracing paper. The melody is familiar, only because Bilbo has heard it before. He sits up, blinking sleep from his eyes, nudging Erebor off his lap. It’s almost three in the afternoon. He’s still—mostly—curled on his designated couch cushion. It’s raining again, drumming against the roof of the garage, a counterpoint to Thorin’s voice. Because he hasn’t noticed that Bilbo’s awake yet, he goes on humming; he’s probably sitting at his desk, one leg up on the rungs of the stool, bent over a perspective sketch or an elevation. Bilbo doesn’t raise his head over the back of the couch to check but he can picture it so clearly. Perhaps Thorin has come to the realisation sooner than Bilbo, that the only way they can continue is to go on as if nothing has changed. Or perhaps for him, nothing has.

          They’re not “boyfriends”; they’ve already established that. They’re friends. Bilbo isn’t entirely certain he’s had enough true friends in his life to be able to say what limits the boundaries of friendship. Is this—what they’re doing—what people call “friends with benefits”? A ridiculous phrase, because it implies that the friends you’re not sleeping with aren’t benefitting you at all. What kinds of friends are those? And besides, it’s not the sleeping part that’s the concern here. Sleeping beside Thorin has become almost second nature, the ease of matching breaths and shared blankets. Even though he knows it’s pointless, Bilbo can’t help but want to classify this, whatever it is that stands between him and Thorin, whatever it is that’s holding them together. He needs to put names to things. Year after year of schooling has taught him that if he cannot define his terms, he cannot make an argument, and the whole project will fall apart.

          Half-hunched over on the couch, hair still damp from his shower, in borrowed sweats and a t-shirt and a blanket he does not remember falling asleep under, Bilbo tries not to tell himself that one of the terms he’s looking for is “love.” It’s easier to rub the old woolen blanket between his fingers absently, and to watch Ere watching him, and to listen to the percussion of rain on a metal roof on a spring afternoon when he has skipped his classes. It’s easier to pretend. The scrape of metal stool legs on concrete floor makes him sit up, and Ere protests the sudden lack of attention. Thorin’s noticed that Bilbo’s awake.

          “Hey,” Thorin says, tucking his pencil behind an ear.

          “Hey,” Bilbo says back, all too aware that his glasses are crooked from leaning against the pillow and his hair has probably dried weird, sticking up in all directions

          Thorin clears his throat. “Do you still not want to talk about it?” he asks, and Bilbo sinks back down, lets the back of the couch be a barrier between the two of them. It doesn’t work. Thorin just comes over, lifts one long leg and steps over the couch entirely to sit down beside Bilbo and look at him. Thorin, Bilbo discovers, can go for a very long time without blinking.

          Losing their staring contest, Bilbo closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s just . . . parents. You know? Thinking of them, and what they would think, and whether they would have liked you, and it’s stupid, I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

          “It’s not stupid.”

          “It’s stupid to wish they weren’t dead,” Bilbo says, and his voice hitches. “I’ve been wishing it for years. Hasn’t changed anything. Hence, stupid.”

          “It’s not stupid, Bilbo.” Thorin moves closer, puts an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and pulls him in.

          There is a particular quality to silences when you are breathing into another person’s skin and hoping that they will say words you don’t think they even know. Bilbo rubs at his nose and shifts away. “I wish you could have met them,” he says. “That’s all. They would’ve liked to know I had . . . a friend.”

          Thorin doesn’t say anything right away. Was that the wrong word to use, after all? But then, “I’d have been glad to meet them,” Thorin says, dropping his arm. “Though I’d have to ask them what kind of a kid they had, whose stomach is always making noise. Come on, you slept through lunch and I’m tired of working. Let’s eat.”

          One of Thorin’s many admirable qualities—he does have many, even if he often doesn’t show them—is his ability to redirect, with sarcasm or teasing or simply rudeness. It’s something Bilbo has never learned, and if eight months of hanging around Thorin Oakenshield haven’t taught him yet he doubts if he’ll ever get it. To be able to derail someone from their introspection and make them a sandwich and put just the right song on the record player. To be the one who, when you walk in the room, all eyes shift to you, and then to be able to carry that collective gaze without stumbling. This is what Bilbo means when he thinks that, out of the two of them, Thorin is the more well adjusted one.

          So they eat, and Bilbo reads an old magazine on the couch while Thorin finishes his sketches, piano and a woman's voice low in the background. Later, they bundle up in raincoats—the sleeves fall down to cover Bilbo's fingers—and head out to the creek, Ere leading the way. The rain is more than a mist, less than steady, and Bilbo kicks at puddles in borrowed, too-big boots. Thorin sidesteps the splashes and, generously, doesn't kick back. When they reach the dam they ignore the signs and step over the chains, walk down the stone steps to water level. The river is grey-green and swollen.

          “What are you thinking about?” Bilbo asks Thorin, hands in his pockets, rain dripping down his sleeves. “When you look at the water?”

          “Do you want me to make a metaphor?”

          “I want you to be honest.”

          “You think I lie?”

          “Everyone lies, Thorin.”

          “I'm thinking about how long summer takes to get here.” Thorin leans back against the low wall of the monitoring station on the riverbank. “How, this time of year, everything is already golden back home. How my sister must be moving fences. I'm . . . I'm thinking about you. And how ridiculous you look in that coat. You're so small.”

          “Am not.”

          “Are, too.” Thorin puts his hand atop Bilbo's head to emphasize his point. “I'm thinking about all the work I didn't do this week and how fucked I am for studio tomorrow. About how best to avoid my advisors. Maybe I should push them into the river. What do you think, is this rain an omen?”

          “No. And get your hand off my head.” Bilbo steps out from the shelter of the wall. “It's just rain. Sometimes things don't mean anything more.”

          “Sometimes they do,” Thorin says. Ere dips a paw into the river and then heads off up the bank, disappears into the trees with their new leaves still pale. “Are you thinking about last night?”

          “No.”

          “Bilbo.”

          “I don't want to talk about it.”

          “So that's what you were upset about earlier?”

          “No.”

          “I'm going to push _you_ into the river. Come on. Talk to me.” Thorin steps between Bilbo and the water, balanced on the edge of the platform. “What's wrong?”

          Bilbo backs away. Presses his lips together. Turns his face to the sky and lets rain spot his glasses. “I don't know what I'm doing. With you.”

          “In general, or in particular?”

          “Either. Both. I don't know. Last night . . . I can't even talk about it without wanting to save you the trouble and throwing myself into the river first.”

          “You're . . . what, ashamed? Did I do something wrong?”

          “I'm embarrassed.”

          “So I did do something wrong.”

          “No, it's-- It's just me. Being an idiot. Again.”

          “Bilbo, you're one of the smartest people I know.”

          “You don't know a lot of people.”

          “Not true. I just don't like a lot of people.”

          “But you like me?” Bilbo has to ask, the words out of his mouth like a cliché. Thorin frowns at him.

          “All right, statement retracted,” he says, “maybe you're not that smart. Hello, earth to space cadet, obviously I like you. What's wrong?” Thorin's frown deepens, and he starts to say something once, twice, with no sound. What comes out, eventually, is this: “We don't have to have sex, you know, if that's what this is about. I messed up, last night. Sorry.”

          “No, no, you didn't. I wanted to,” Bilbo says.

          “Wanted to,” Thorin repeats. “OK. Past tense. You don't anymore?”

          “I don't know.”

          “Why do you think you have to decide right away? Can't we just play it by ear? Slowly?”

          “It's a bit hard,” Bilbo says, wiping his glasses, “to take things slow when you've got one foot out the door already. How much longer are you staying? How much longer do we have?”

          Thorin sighs, and kicks a loose rock into the river. Erebor appears at the sound of the splash, dark head poking out over the low roof. “Not long.”

          “Exactly. So what's the point?”

          “The point is not being afraid to do something just because you don't know how, or when, it will end. You can't live like that.”

          “Maybe _you_ can't,” Bilbo says. “But I have lived like that, for twenty-four years. It isn't so easy to change. And besides, I'm allowed to be afraid, all right, I'm allowed to be nervous. Not all of us have had years of drunken exploits to fall back on as prior experience.”

          “You think I have some long history of drunken one-night stands?”

          “Well . . . yes.”

          “What the fuck, Bilbo. I wouldn't do that.”

          “No?”

          “No. God, why would you think that? What about last night said to you that I didn't care?” Thorin moves into Bilbo's space, too-close and tall and loud, hood thrown back with no regard for the rain. Bilbo cringes.

          “Nothing,” he says. “Sorry. I didn't mean that.”

          “You meant something by it. Tell me.”

          “You didn't do anything wrong, all right, Thorin? I was speaking without thinking. I'm sorry. I'm the one who messed up last night. It wasn't you, it's just stupid things in my head that I can't seem to get past and I can't even look at you now without feeling embarrassed so if you could please take a step back, all right, that would help me not panic so much.”

          “Don't panic,” Thorin says, and backs off. Pulls his hood up again. “There, you don't even have to look at me. But I do need to know if you're really all right. If I . . . If I hurt you.”

          “No! You didn't.” At least, Bilbo thinks, not in the way you mean. “I swear, Thorin. I shouldn't have said that to you. You were . . . Well. You know.” Bilbo forces a smile. The more he pretends, the easier it becomes. Funny how that works.

          Thorin looks at him from under the brim of his hood, considering him for a long minute. Then he smiles back, not entirely nicely. “Even so, a guy likes to hear it,” he says, raising a hand to cup around his ear. Waiting.

          Bilbo knocks his hand down. “Shut up, you. I'm not stroking your ego. And don't even think about making any jokes about stroking. Remember who made you breakfast this morning.”

          “Remember who made you lunch.”

          “Remember who threatened to push whom into the river,” Bilbo retorts. But he shouldn't have brought it up. “No. Stop it. Thorin!” Thorin's gotten hold of Bilbo around the waist and spun him, has him dangling off the edge of the platform before Bilbo can even think about slipping away. “Don't you dare!”

          “You're no fun.” Thorin sets Bilbo gently back on the ground.

          “Yes, that's me. Zero fun. It's why you enjoy my company so much.”

          “I only tolerate you because my dog likes you,” Thorin says, because Erebor has come back, tail wagging, panting, stained with mud up to his belly.

          “Now the truth comes out,” Bilbo says, and pats Ere on the head. “Men,” he tells the dog, “are shallow creatures.”

          “Shallow like the river,” Thorin mutters.

          They walk back to the garage. By the time they get there the rain has stopped. Ere shakes mud all over the back porch and Thorin hoses him off, grinning, holding the dog by the collar as he bites at the spray of water. Bilbo watches them, trying to shake the feeling that all he's done is made things worse, and fooled Thorin into thinking they're better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long endnotes: I'd decided a long time ago that I wasn't going to write sex scenes in my fics, for several reasons: one being that there are plenty of well written sex scenes already, entire fics of them, and for those who might not want to read that, I wanted to step in and offer an alternative because I know I get a little tired, sometimes, of being into a long fic and then about two thirds through having to skip multiple chapters because it's just sex; a second being that as someone who's mostly uninterested in sex, I find those kinds of scenes absurdly difficult to write at all, let alone to write in a way that it still sounds like my authorial voice; a third being that my secondhand embarrassment knows very few bounds, and the thought of posting anything that goes beyond the implied is still somewhat mortifying. That said, uh, here's some sex. Why now? Well, mostly as an experiment, honestly. To see if I could actually write something that I felt was still true enough to my own voice and way of telling a story. There are at least five drafts behind this (my thanks to bilboo and ewebean for being the test audiences for some earlier versions) if not more, and I'm still not entirely satisfied, but I think short of excising all the explicit parts, this is as good as it can get for something I'm comfortable enough with to post. The point isn't the sex; it's what follows after. What Bilbo thinks about after, and what Thorin is thinking about but not telling, and what they're both letting themselves believe. And then, of course, the events of the main story that surround this. 
> 
> The other part of “Why now?” is that I feel like I've read a decent amount in this fandom and have found kind of a lack of nuance in sex scenes and sexuality (which, I do admit, is starting to improve, and I'm sure there are things I haven't read that are doing this well—rec them in comments below?), particularly involving characters who are somewhere on the grey-ace spectrum or, as is my thought for Bilbo here, who would identify as demisexual. I don't think Bilbo thinks of himself in those words; he doesn't have that vocabulary yet (he will, I imagine, once he gets into his second year and starts reading queer theory and Lee Edelman and Judith Butler and so many others). And you're certainly free to read him otherwise, with whatever romantic and sexual orientation you think is coming from his character in this fic. For me, though, in case you're curious, that's the place he's coming from. Demisexuality (and, probably, biromanticism). So the questions of how he would react, what he would think about before/during/after, those were things I wanted to explore here. He's not just going to have sex with someone and then fall asleep and carry on in the morning like this is his new pattern now, because he's never done this before and never wanted to do it before, so everything is unfamiliar. He's not going to think about things in exact terms during the act, which means we're not going to get those terms as readers because we're in his head. For Thorin's part, he's more comfortable with both his body and his sexuality, and he fits parts of a certain stereotype about college bros (the drinking, the stupid jokes, the neon sunglasses), but again, I wanted to think about nuance and how he would handle being the one to take the lead with someone he subconsciously cares for a lot more than he's willing to admit. He's going to make himself pay attention and not just rely on instinct, even though he has those instincts and that drive. I also wanted to make them negotiate, I guess, because I am not a fan of many cliché tropes about sex (that it will fix everything, that it always goes smoothly, that there are designated roles people have to fit, that it's bliss afterwards, that consent is taken for granted because they're so in love, etc.); I wanted to see if I could write them checking in with each other and not make it ruin the pacing, and it was important to me that they were actually on the same page while it was happening (regardless of what they each might be thinking afterwards). I know there have been campaigns about “consent is sexy!” and various re-wordings of that around college campuses and the like—I think it often comes off as something that has to interrupt the flow of things in order to be done properly, and is therefore to be avoided, or covered with a blanket “yes” at the start, and that's not the way it needs to be. (I also think the pressure to be “sexy” is just . . . weird and uncomfortable, but that's another discussion.) I don't know. I've debated for a while over posting this at all but in the end I put a lot of time into it and I am proud of everything in the writing but the actual sex, so I figured I'd share it anyway because that last thing is not likely to change for me. Share & then run away. Leave me your thoughts, for whenever I work up the courage to return for them? 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	4. second outtake: Monday the 22nd of September -- after

**I.**

 

 

> You're far from me,  
>  somewhere I can't reach.  
>  I'm hearing words  
>  from a lonely galaxy.
> 
> [—Trembling Blue Stars, “Birthday Girl”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHZ47eVe6zs)

 

Midnight comes on the twenty-second of September and finds Bilbo standing by the kitchen windows, looking out at the lawn. It's not a spectacular evening. Not warm, not cool. Through the gap in the curtains he can see stars breaking through thin cloud cover, tiny specks of light high and far away. He never went through the astronaut phase as a kid. Never dreamed of going to space camp, or being the first man on Mars, or flying down to Cape Canaveral to watch a launch in person, feel the rush of heat and dust on his face. But there's something about the stars that appeals to him, in a distant, poetic kind of way. You look at them and feel small—isn't that how it's meant to work? But it's not that, exactly. It's the potential they offer, for a life that's different than the one he's living, or will ever live. Unknown, yet not unknowable.

Give or take six hours, Bilbo's just turned twenty-five. He doesn't immediately feel older, or wiser. Just a little more tired. A little more stretched. It’s his second year of gradschool. Classes have only be in session for a few weeks and already it feels he doesn’t belong there anymore. Everyone keeps telling him that imposter syndrome will fade with time, but how much time? Someone, eventually, has to realise that he's not good enough for this.

Where else could he go?

Well, it’s obvious. But he’s trying not to think about it.

They haven’t really spoken since the 18th of June, when Thorin had phoned the landline and Bilbo told him, “All right,” and they left it at that. Not quite a beginning, but not quite an end. Something in between. All their in-between conversations since then have been strained somehow, neither of them sure of what to say. It was meant to be easier to talk to someone when you didn’t have to look them in the eye, but Bilbo twirls the cord of Balin’s house phone around his fingers and finds all the words he wants to say catching in his throat.

This is where Bilbo is now: one of those in between spaces. Not happy but not exactly unhappy. So many things he should be doing—reading, sleeping, planning his course for the fall, editing a paper for a conference, eating proper meals—but nothing he particularly wants to do. What he really wants, he thinks, as he looks at the patterns in the tile floor, is for someone else to be in charge for a while. To just step in and take over, so that he can finally have some peace of mind.

It seems simple, except for the part where the person he wants to step in and take over is on the other side of the country and he’s told himself, at least twelve times this week, that he’s not thinking about Thorin. The contradiction inherent there, that reminding himself to not think of Thorin requires thinking precisely of Thorin, is not lost on Bilbo.

It’s just that when it’s so late at night and he’s feeling all combinations of low and alone, he can’t help wishing Thorin was there to tell him to go to bed, or to stop looking so pathetic, or to muss his hair and shove him into a couch cushion. Wishes Thorin was there to make pancakes, and be a pest while doing the dishes, getting soap bubbles everywhere. These are stupid things to want, and yet Bilbo wants them. In spite of everything else he did—everything else Bilbo wishes he hadn’t done—Thorin always did know, somehow, exactly how to give Bilbo what it was he needed.

Bilbo’s only just now starting to see that he couldn’t do the same for Thorin, and that maybe that’s a larger part of their problems than he ever realised.

It’s easy to see what Bilbo needed from Thorin. What did Thorin need from Bilbo in return? Why did he keep seeking Bilbo out, after the awkward disasters of their early interactions? It can’t have been simple companionship. Thorin never seemed lacking in friends, with Balin just next door and Dwalin hanging about at all hours, and who knows how many others around. It’s not as if Bilbo’s particularly attractive, or particularly brilliant, or any of the things people typically look for in partners. He’s younger, less experienced, less outgoing . . . less in every way. Was that what Thorin had wanted? Someone to compare himself to, measure himself up against and come out the victor? But no, that doesn’t feel right. It’s more that Thorin had tried to shape him, build him up to fit a certain mould. With Thorin, Bilbo had done so many things he’d never done before. Learned to drive. Swam in his underwear. Flew across the country. Drank on campus. Skipped class. Had sex.

Is he a different person now, after all of it?

Well, yes.

Is it a person he likes?

That’s a harder question. Right now, no. But in general, he thinks, everyone changes, and the person he’s changed into this past year is not so bad. He’s more confident, for one thing. More likely to stand up for himself. More secure in his own footing. Yes, he is also sitting on the kitchen floor in his underwear, which has been happening unfortunately often this year, but every bit of progress has its setbacks, right? Being with Thorin has made him realise that he can’t simply go through life without opinions on things that aren’t family, books, or food. He’s started to develop opinions about himself, for instance. About what he really wants out of life. About what it means to be satisfied.

So in many ways, Thorin is to blame for this onslaught of self-awareness that’s left Bilbo feeling stuck in limbo, discouraged on the floor, wishing he wasn’t in charge of his own life. But then again, in many ways, probably more significant ways, there’s no one to blame. Things just sort of happen, and you have to deal with the consequences and find a way to move on.

With a sigh, Bilbo runs his hands through his hair until it’s standing on end. From the window over the sink he can just barely make out the silhouette of the garage against the deep blue-black of the night. The sheets from Thorin’s bed have been washed and folded for weeks but he hasn’t been able to go back and stack them in the closet. So they’re sitting in a pile on the bench by the side door. Waiting for him to come out of this in-between place of indecision.

Even though he won’t let himself wish for Thorin, he made no promises about Ere. Right now would be a really good time to have a dog, Bilbo thinks, warm and calm beside him, some solid company. Erebor would have curled up next to him on the floor, put his head in Bilbo’s lap, and huffed until Bilbo gave in and played with the dog’s ears, rubbed his belly. Erebor wouldn’t have left Bilbo alone.

It’s a stupid thought. Bilbo is the one who left Thorin in the end, after all.

He turns away from the window, drinks a glass of water and eats a couple of grapes from the bowl standing on the counter. Tells himself to go to bed. But he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to stare at the wall, either, but at least that’s a non-commitment. Nothing to be gained or lost by staring at the wall. The wallpaper will stay the same—faded leaves and flowers in neutral tones—and the wall won’t move and he can pretend that time’s not even passing. If he sleeps, he’ll close his eyes and lose four or five hours when he opens them again, and nothing will have changed. That’s what wrecks him: that so much time can be passing, and things aren’t getting any easier. He still thinks about Thorin with an ache that hurts and refuses to leave. He knows it was for the best that they went their separate ways and he knows it was his choice, one of the most important choices he’s made and he wouldn’t un-make it.

And yet, he misses Thorin. He misses Erebor. He misses having someone awake with him, late at night, even if they weren’t talking. Even if they weren’t doing anything in particular. It had felt so _right_ , the pattern they’d fallen into, so natural and comfortable, and now it’s completely gone. Vanished out of his life. Even if he could bring himself to dial Thorin’s number, even if Thorin picked up the phone, it wouldn’t be the same. It would be a shadow of what they had, tainted by all the things that went wrong, blurred by distance. And it was never perfect—far from it—but loss romanticises everything, doesn’t it? Melancholy seeps in and tinges ruin with nostalgia. Bilbo knows all this well enough, probably better than most. He’s read enough Freud and Benjamin and Lacan to know about missing pieces and distorted memories and how history rewrites itself. And yet he’s just as guilty of it as the next man.

“You’re being a real idiot about this, Bilbo Baggins,” he tells himself, and heads upstairs to the bath. He gets undressed, fills the old claw-footed tub, and steps in without bothering to turn the lights on. It's a habit he developed in undergrad: bathing with the lights off. What do you need to see? It's your own body. Darkness, warmth, the steady pressure of water, rising steam—all the elements of forgetting, of rewinding, unwinding. Erasure. He rests his chin on the edge of the tub, waiting for the water to rise.

The windows rattle with the wind, single-plated glass in wooden frames. The place is well maintained, but with the unavoidable quirks of old houses. Thorin told him once that it was haunted. But Bilbo’s spent two weeks in these rooms and the only ghosts he’s found are the ones he brought with him.

Bilbo shuts off the tap and sinks down, ducks his head under, hugs his knees. He holds his breath in for as long as he can and then breathes it out, slowly, until his chest is burning. The soap stings when he opens his eyes and he squints against clouded water, studies the blur of his knees, his toes. Choking, he pushes himself upright, gasps for air as his face clears the surface of the water. He pushes his hair off his forehead and reaches for the shampoo. Washing his hair, eyes closed, Bilbo feels something loosen in his chest. When he gets into bed, damp-haired and clean, his mind is empty.

The water’s cooled by the time he climbs out of the tub. Dry and dressed in clean pajamas—a t-shirt worn soft with age, faded flannel pants—Bilbo burrows under a heap of blankets in one of the guest bedrooms and tries to warm up. He hasn’t been able to sleep in the main bedroom yet. The one that he’s chosen looks out over the lawn towards the garage. There’s a double bed against a wall with a painting of rolling hills and yellow flowers, a bookcase stuffed full of botany guides, and a rocking chair next to the window. He wonders whose room it was, wonders if Balin ever had children. There’s another guest bedroom, a couple of doors down, that looks like Thorin may have stayed there once in a while—prints of some da Vinci sketches on the walls and a stack of kid’s wooden building blocks beside the bed. Thorin was never in this house as a kid, of course, but it's easy to picture him sitting cross-legged on the floor and building a tower out of those blocks when he needed a break from his thesis work.

The house is always quiet, but even more so on Sunday nights. Bilbo lies in bed and listens to the wind. Without his glasses on everything is muted, swathes of colour and impressions of depth. It gives him a headache if he looks too long but there's something appealing about, in the same way the stars are appealing. It's another world.

 

**II.**

 

 

> In the space between our houses,  
>  some bones have been discovered . . .  
>  In the space between our cities,  
>  a storm is slowly forming.  
> Something eating up our days—  
>  I feel it every morning.  
>    
>  [—The Church, “Destination”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nidAGwtYGuA)

   
In the morning, in this world, Bilbo puts on his glasses and gets out of bed, pulls on a pair of socks. Down in the kitchen he turns on the gas stove and watches the flame surge up around the tea kettle. It's just after seven o'clock; he's officially another year older. What do people do on their birthdays when they grow up? No one's thrown him a party in years. His parents used to, all the extended family and friends and neighbours in the back garden, lights strung up in the trees, someone's uncle on the fiddle and a cousin on the guitar and haphazard dancing barefoot in the grass. When he was in undergrad he never told anyone it was his birthday but some classmates found out anyway and took him for drinks his last year, a dive bar at the edge of town that the underclassmen couldn't get into, frequented by professors and disgruntled townsfolk. He wants to say that Thorin would have thrown him a party last year, but they didn’t yet know each other in September. He supposes he could call Gandalf, but who knows where the man is? And what is he looking for his not-uncle to say, besides the obvious birthday greeting? His other classmates here seem nice enough, if intimidating and interested in other things; he's not going to e-mail them and announce himself. Ori would get a drink with him, probably, but Bilbo doesn't even want to celebrate, really. It's just another day. Tomorrow it will be Tuesday and the week will go on as normal. He’ll still be here, and Thorin still won’t be.

The only class he has on Mondays is an afternoon seminar on narratology. Though he could go into campus and work, Bilbo decides that his one treat to himself for his birthday will be laziness. He stays in his pajamas and brings his laptop down to the kitchen table, spreads out with work and plates of toast and eggs. He scrolls through articles for his seminar, only half-reading them. A warm breeze sweeps in through the kitchen windows, enough to rustle the pages of his notebook. Autumn as a season hasn’t really started yet, but some of the leaves are beginning to change colour. Soon the winds will turn cold, blowing in off the lake. Soon Bilbo will be pulling sweaters out of the wardrobe. Time passes, but its signs stay the same, the markers of the turning of the year.

Bilbo hadn’t really liked autumn until he came here. Spring was always his favourite season back home. Damp and green, everything waking up, everything blooming. Fog on early mornings and long clear afternoons. And then he moved north, and spring disappeared into a two-week gap between the snows of winter and the brief humid haze of summer. Now he’s growing to love crisp days, the deep blue of the sky against golden trees, the way the clock tower chimes carry down the hill on a calm afternoon. How the sailboats look out on the lake, or the way the seagulls cry out as they circle the docks.

What does autumn look like out west, out on the mountainside? Are the trees changing for Thorin? Is he looking out of the windows of Dis’s farmhouse to patches of burnt ochre and red, or do the aspens stay green? Is there snow in the mountains yet?

He thinks about texting Thorin, even picks up his new phone. But what would he say? “Hi, I miss you, do the seasons change out there the way they do here?” He can’t say that. “It’s weird sleeping alone in Balin’s house?” Or, “It’s my birthday and you’re a slacker for not being here to make me pancakes?”

Anything he wants to say would sound stupid over text, so he says nothing.

When it comes time to head out for campus, Bilbo locks up Balin’s house behind him, glances at it over his shoulder as he swings a leg over his bicycle. It looks as if it’s always been there, sitting back against the slight rise of a hill, looking out towards the river. Most days Bilbo still doesn’t believe that it’s really his, now. Who on earth has a house like this at twenty-five?

The ride to campus is a long, winding path down the hill. Bilbo coasts along, listening to the sound of tires on pavement, leaves crunching as he rides over them. He sits through his seminar without really listening, head propped up on one hand, watching the dust motes float around the classroom as the ceiling fan spins lazily overhead.

Bilbo hasn’t been back to the studio yet this semester. There’s no reason he would go, really. The renovations were completed over the summer so probably even Dwalin isn’t around anymore. When his seminar lets out and he heads across campus to the library, Bilbo looks back at Milstein, sun glinting against its glass walls, and he’s so distracted that he nearly gets run over by a girl passing by on a bicycle. Willing himself to turn away, Bilbo starts walking. His shoulders are tight with every step he takes.

In the graduate reading room of the library, the windows look out over hill and down to the lake. Everywhere on campus, even here, seems to carry memories of Thorin and the things they did together. Bilbo chooses a seat with his back to the windows and sits down to work. He’s started teaching this semester and is responsible for sixteen first-year students, who look at him as if they expect him to have all the answers. So he has to at least try to have some. It’s a course on mystery fiction, one of the standard ones the department offers, shuffling it between grad students every year. Bilbo never had any real fascination for mystery stories growing up but reading them now, he is beginning to see the appeal.

They’re doing Poe this week, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and you couldn’t ask for any more symbolism. As much as Bilbo sort of hates that, it’s also been strangely useful to think through things. Things like what happens when a person is so tied to a place, and that place fails. Things like what happens to the ones who get left behind. “Yet I really knew little of my friend,” the narrator admits, and Bilbo flinches as he reads.

Did he know Thorin, really, at all? He thinks he knew, at least a little bit. He thinks they knew each other. Standing out there on the mountain with Thorin, Bilbo had thought that things finally made sense. The distance is making it harder, though. The more time passes, the more that thought slips away. It’s one thing to know the touch of someone else’s hands on your body, the way they smell after being caught in the rain, the sound of their footsteps across the room. It’s another thing to know the thoughts that keep them awake at night, or the thoughts they think when they look at you. Bilbo’s not sure he knew that last one.

He makes himself keep working until the sun starts to go down over the lake, throwing his shadow out further in front of him and covering the words on the page. Then he packs up, unlocks his bicycle from the rack, and heads off up the hill back to the house. The approach takes him past the turn-off for the garage and Bilbo keeps his eyes forward, looks at the gravel and the trees that open out unto the house’s lawn. He heads inside, changes into old sweatpants, and starts to think about cooking dinner. It’s an effort to eat, or cook for one. He keeps turning around and then getting angry at himself for expecting to see Thorin handing him the salt or efficiently chopping up an onion.

It’s that anger more than anything else that convinces him to pick up his phone and dial Thorin’s number. It rings, and rings, and Bilbo tucks it against his shoulder so he can keep cooking with both hands. When Thorin finally picks up, his voice is rough.

“Bilbo?”

“Hi, Thorin.”

“Are you all right?”

“Why, do I have to always be in trouble when I call you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

Bilbo can hear the exasperation in Thorin’s voice as he stirs his pasta. “I’m not calling to argue with you.”

Thorin is quiet a moment. “Why are you calling?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“No.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice,” Bilbo says, quietly. Before Thorin can reply, he goes on, “Maybe I wanted to see how your day was.”

Thorin says nothing.

“That’s your cue to tell me how your day was, Thorin.”

“It was fine. Nothing special. Fili sprained his ankle chasing a hawk away from the hens so he was off from school today and we worked on repairing Dis’s truck. Piece of shit keeps stalling on the drive up the mountain.” There’s a rustling noise in the background on Thorin’s end, and the sound of a door sliding shut. Bilbo can almost see if it he closes his eyes, Thorin stepping out onto the side porch, the afternoon sun—though it’s evening here, out west the sun would still be in the sky—lighting up the ridges of rock in the distance. But then Thorin says, “There’s a storm coming in from the mountains. The wind’s picking up.” And the image in Bilbo’s mind changes.

“I hope Fili’s all right,” he says.

“He’ll be fine.” Thorin’s breath is loud over the line. “How— How have you been? It’s been, what, a week or two since we talked?”

It’s been eleven days, but Bilbo doesn’t tell him that. “I’m fine,” he says. “You know how it is. Nothing really changes here.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

They’re both quiet for a bit. “Bilbo?” Thorin asks.

“Yes?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would,” Bilbo says, and thinks he’s mostly being honest.

“It’s just that you sound unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy, Thorin.” He’s not exactly happy, either. But you don’t always have to be happy, do you? No one really lives their life like that. Bilbo shifts the phone to his other ear and turns to drain his pasta water into the sink.

“It snowed in the mountains last night,” Thorin tells him. His voice is gentler now, smoother. “The first snow of the season. You can just barely see it from the porch. If the storm isn’t too bad, I’m going up there tomorrow just to look around. By the end of October, I probably won’t be able to drive up there anymore. Of course, given the state of Dis’s truck, I might not even be able to drive up there now.”

“You couldn’t take your car?”

“The ground-clearance is too low. I’d never make it.”

“So what will you do all winter, then? If you can’t get to Erebor?”

“There’s always work to be done on the property. I’ll help Dis, and I’ll look after the boys. Probably try to find work at a ranch nearby to bring in some extra money.”

“Not many architecture jobs out there, then? No castles to restore?”

“Very funny,” Thorin says. “No. If I go down to one of the cities, there might be something, corporate work or something like that. But that’s not what I came out here for.”

“No, I know.”

There is a shuffling noise and then Thorin, his voice sounding further away, says, “Say hello to Ere.”

“Oh, hi, Ere,” Bilbo says, as the dog breathes heavily into the phone. “Hi. I miss you.” He hears Thorin laugh as he shifts the phone back, Ere’s breathing fading.

“He misses you too,” Thorin says. “And I miss you, you know. I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I wish you were here, that’s all. I hate not being able to see your face.”

This is the most real conversation they’ve had in months and Bilbo, eating pasta with a fork straight out of the pot, isn’t sure he’s prepared for it.

“What are you doing for Fall Break? You should— Do you want to come out here?”

The question takes Bilbo by surprise, both because it is a question and not an order, which shows progress, but also because he hadn’t even considered it. He’s been living as if Thorin and the mountains were a world away, some far-off region impossible to reach. All it would take is a couple hundred dollars, and an airplane.

And yet, once again, it’s he who is being asked to make the effort while Thorin takes charge. Which is, yes, what he’s been missing, but also one of the major sources of their problems. Why doesn’t Thorin fly out here instead? If the snows in the mountains mean he can’t work at restoring Erebor, what does he have to lose for a few days in October?

Bilbo doesn’t say any of that. He just says, “I’ll think about it.”

They talk about meaningless things after that: the weather, Dis telling Thorin off for forgetting to buy milk, Bilbo’s efforts at revitalising Balin’s herb garden. When Thorin says, “I should go,” Bilbo doesn’t argue.

“Say hello to Dis and the boys for me,” he says instead.

“I will.”

“Thorin—”

“Yeah?”

“No, nevermind.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know what today is?”

“Space cadet,” Thorin laughs. “What, did you forget the date? It’s September twenty-second.”

“Oh. Right.” Bilbo closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the cabinet hanging over the stove. Of course. What did he expect?

“Get some sleep tonight, okay? You worry me.”

“Right,” Bilbo says again.

“Goodnight then, Bilbo.”

“Goodnight, Thorin.” Bilbo hangs up and looks down at his phone screen, at the image of Thorin that he’d set as a contact photo. In it, Thorin is scowling, arms crossed over his chest in a thin t-shirt. Dis had taken it, standing out in front of their house, and sent it to Bilbo. They’ve only started talking recently. Bilbo wasn’t sure what she would think of him, after he left, even though she’d been so kind. But it’s been good to hear from her. It’s been good to know that someone else worries about Thorin, but also thinks that Thorin’s being an ass. Dis has told him this, in those exact words. Even though they’ve only exchanged a handful of text messages, Bilbo has learned that she’s usually right. It also helps that he feels the same way, most days.

The house is dark by the time he finishes clearing up the dishes and putting the leftovers away. Turning lights on as he goes, Bilbo climbs the stairs to the second floor. It’s not really a conscious decision, but he stops at the door to the main bedroom. The door is closed, as it has been since he moved in. There’s no reason to feel so apprehensive about opening and yet something like a shiver runs through Bilbo when he puts his hand to the knob and turns. There’s a light-switch beside the doorway and Bilbo flicks it on, casts a warm glow over the space. He steps inside. It’s not even like this was Thorin’s room. It was Balin’s. There’s no need for Bilbo to have avoided it this long, apart from this feeling he has that stepping in here somehow marks the end of something. It’s all very symbolic: crossing the threshold is, somehow, like making a decision. Bilbo runs his hand over the carved footboard of the bed and thinks that if he’s going to be living here, and if he’s going to get through the year, he has to stop avoiding things. Tonight, the main bedroom. Tomorrow, the garage.

When Bilbo gets into bed that night, the shadows on the ceiling are different. The windows look out on nothing more than a gentle slope of grass. The sheets are soft and smell entirely unfamiliar. He still dreams of Thorin, but that’s not likely to change soon, even now that he’s made his mind up. In his dream, Thorin is standing at the edge of the lake, Ere at his side. It’s night and the stars are out; Thorin’s face is strangely bright. He’s not quite smiling, just standing there as Bilbo takes a step forward. Bilbo half-expects Thorin to reach out a hand, draw him close, but Thorin turns as Bilbo comes near, looking out over the water instead.

The thought of finding meaning in dreams has always been a bit ridiculous to Bilbo. So when he wakes the next morning he shakes his head at himself. What even is a dream like that supposed to mean anyway? That they are two different people, not yet in the same place? That much, at least is true. What happens next? Bilbo doesn’t know.

And then his phone goes off, chiming a message alert from the nightstand. Bilbo groans and rolls over to reach it. It’s barely eight in the morning. The message is from Thorin, for whom it’s barely six in the morning. “Hey,” it says, “I was thinking last night, what if instead of you coming out here in October, I fly out to visit you?”

Bilbo reads it a second time, to be sure it’s real. And then he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this a day early, really, but here it is. Hi, friends, it's been a while.
> 
> I was going through my writing notes in preparation for a new fic I'm working on (first chapter comes out tomorrow) and I found a couple of pages of unfinished writing for HTW outtakes, so I decided to combine a few of them into this. Figured I might as well share it with you all, instead of it just sitting on my hard-drive. So that's where the first section came from, and then I wrote section two last night. The song for the first section is something Bilbo would listen to, while the second one is more Thorin.
> 
> This is, in a sense, an epilogue (not necessarily the only one) to HTW. And I debated for a while over how to end it. And then I was talking to ewebean at like 4 in the morning and we both agreed that it was time for some less ambiguous closure (a sentiment I feel like probably most of you share) which, all the same, still has some ambiguity. What happens next? I don't really know. Yet.
> 
> I also just wanted to say, in words that can't ever really express what I feel, how grateful I am to all of you who have read and supported this story, and told me what it means to you. Even though I look back at HTW and see a lot of its flaws (in an ideal world where I had more time, I'd go back and edit it and make a "director's cut" edition), it still remains one of my favourite things I've ever written, and I think contains some of my best writing. I care about this story a lot and it kind of makes me cry to see how much you all care about it too. Thank you.


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